


Baker Street: Part X

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [23]
Category: Maude (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Acts of God, Ancient History, Anglo-Saxon, Army, Art, Assassination, Attempted Murder, Berkshire, Bets & Wagers, Blackmail, Boats and Ships, Butt Plugs, Caring, College, Disguise, Divorce, Double Penetration, Egypt, England (Country), F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Fraud, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Hampshire, Infidelity, Inheritance, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Karma - Freeform, Kent - Freeform, London, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mathematics, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Money, Multi, Murder, Plots, Poisoning, Politics, Religion, Revenge, School, Scotland, Theft, Threesome - M/M/M, Trains, Trauma, Victorian, Women's Suffrage, dorset, essex, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25800484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1897-1898. If you thought the dangers facing the dynamic duo were surely over by now, think again. Sherlock makes a rare mistake when a warning about body-parts seems not to have come true, and it is John who will risk paying the ultimate price, for after devils, angels, supermen, soldiers, magistrates, Maudes, paint, politics, sweeps and someone who is a little too honest for his own good, the doctor's life again comes under threat and someone tries to flee the country.
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherrinford Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: Elementary 366 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vignahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignahara/gifts).



** 1897 **

**Interlude: Breakfast**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Despite what he thinks, Sherrinford Holmes is occasionally like his twin_

 **Case 244: Out On A Limb**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_After a warning, a case involving a man killed hundreds of years ago!_

 **Case 245: The Adventure Of The Injudicious Judge ☼**  
by Inspector Gawain LeStrade  
_Sherlock investigates why the loss of a partridge was so important_

 **Case 246: The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Mr. Crowley and Mr. Rival return, with the former's life in peril_

 **Case 247: The Adventure Of The Chimney-Sweep ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock undertakes a case for their local sweep_

 **Case 248: The Adventure Of The Better Man**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Mankind's future beckons as the dynamic duo return to Scotland_

 **Interlude: Plugged In**  
by Mr. Bronn Blackwater, Esquire  
_Bronn Blackwater is ready, willing and oh God right there baby!_

 **Case 249: The H.M.S. Implacable Incident ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Anglo-German politics again, as Sherlock is inveigled into a case_

 **Case 250: The Adventure Of The Truthful Politician**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_John is upset by someone sort of telling the truth_

 **Case 251: The Adventure Of The Retired Colourman**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Egypt again, as desert politicking comes to Paddington_

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** 1898 **

**Case 252: The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Two men lie dead on a train – but Sherlock hunts down their killer_

 **Case 253: The Adventure Of Maude**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The unpleasant Randall Holmes demands Sherlock's help - and gets it!_

 **Interlude: Booking It**  
by Master Tantalus Holmes  
_Sherlock's 'nephew' feels that he is being played – is he?_

 **Case 254: Out On Another Limb**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock realizes the danger that threatens his beloved John - but is he too late?_

 **Interlude: Safe Harbour?**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_The devil carries a Bible – and someone has not got a prayer!_

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	2. Interlude: Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherrinford Holmes takes time out from his 'mountaineering'.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

Poor old Vic. He may have conquered high mountains but a long weekend of sex with me had left him totally wrecked, moaning as he lay in our bed unable to find any position that did not make part of his broken body ache.

I could see why Sherlock strutted at times when he reduced John to almost as bad a state, though he always denied it.

A knock at the door indicated the arrival of breakfast (the servants knew not to enter as 'someone' was often so out of it that he would open the door wearing nothing but a lopsided smile!) and I crossed to get the trolley. Wheeling it in I plated up some sausages, bacon and fried bread for my moustachioed lover and took it over to him. He whimpered as I helped him to sit up and clearly tried to glare at me, but could hardly even manage that.

As my twin said when he thought that no-one was listening, _I was the man!_

Vic attacked my offering with his usual inelegant haste and I had barely finished readying with my own plate before he had finished.

“Any chance of seconds?” he yawned.

“I would have thought that after last night you would not be up for that”, I said, quite deliberately misunderstanding him and standing up as if to doff my own dressing-gown. “But I can always have my own food later....”

He looked horrified before realizing that I was having him on. He managed an almost-scowl but that faded as I instead handed him my own plate and went to get some more.

“You are worried about your twin again”, he said once he had finished (seriously, he was going to eat me out of house and home, but then with me he needed the energy). “Surely he is not heading for yet more trouble?”

“I am afraid that he is”, I sighed. “Worse, he will misinterpret the warning that I sent him and feel that he has avoided danger, only for it to befall him later.”

“And you cannot stop that”, he said. “It must be hard.”

“It is”, I agreed, “but once I have finished eating I will stick it into my favourite mountaineer again and try to get him to come his remaining brains out through his cock. I am sure that I can manage it _this_ time!”

That whine. So damn satisfying!

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As I said, poor old Vic. He did not make it outside that day!

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	3. Case 244: Out On A Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. After a warning of approaching danger Sherlock and John travel to a small English town in the middle of nowhere, where they are faced with what seems to be one of the coldest of cold cases.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John often remarked that my own often ill-starred Hawke/Buckingham family aside, how rare it was for people whom we had helped before to reappear in our lives. Given the nature of my work that was I suppose understandable. This case however began with a connection from one such person, and most unusually it was something that I decided to keep from John. At this time I hardly kept anything from him.

He would doubtless be agreeing with that statement and smirking at the unintentional _double entendre_ , the horny bastard!

The aforementioned connection also tied into the recent case concerning my sister-in-law Rachael and Mr. Blaze Trevelyan, and in particular her son Tantalus. A fine gentleman in the making, he had called round at Baker Street not long after Mother had decided how the problems arising from Pinner would be Resolved and he presumably wished to thank me again for my efforts. Or so I first thought.

“I owe you thanks for the warning”, he smiled as he sat down. “I was going to personally thank my grandmother – of course I would never call her that – but the idea that her latest horror might be read to me if I visited.... no thank you! I sent a long letter instead.”

Ah yes, Mother's latest crime against literature, 'Carousel', in which some sex-mad professor created a miniature carousel in his home where the horses.... gave new meaning to the phrase 'a long, hard ride'. John had threatened that if he ever saw me looking even remotely like following her into the literary world, he would demand a divorce!

“It is something else that brings me here today”, the boy said, “and perhaps it is fortunate that the doctor is out.”

John was away treating a rich hypochondriac out in Dagenham, who would almost certainly be suffering from little more than a sore throat and an overactive imagination. But she was also a good payer, unlike some of his few remaining clients. Money may or may not buy happiness but, I often observed, it rarely seemed to buy the ability to pay one's debts on time oftentimes to the point where I had to use my own contacts to 'prod' the slower payers to cough up. Unless they wished for certain rather insalubrious acts of them and/or those close to them to be thoroughly investigated and then displayed in those social pages that my love never ever read (ahem!).

“We had a school trip yesterday down to the Houses of Parliament”, the boy said. “We even had a short talk from one of them; I think he could have even given my so-called father lessons in how to bore people rigid!”

I smiled at the all too accurate description of Mycroft, who had been in the newspapers only the other day when the new cottage that he had purchased down in Surrey had been badly damaged in a gas explosion that I of course had had absolutely nothing to do with. Thankfully the cottage had been isolated and perhaps less thankfully he had not been inside when the explosion had occurred.

_This time...._

“They have a shop there where you can buy souvenirs of the place”, my visitor said, “but of course we were only let in a few at a time. I purchased a bookmark and a pencil-sharpener, and the gentleman at the till put them in a bag for me. Everything was fine until I got home and went to put them away, which was when I found it.”

“One moment”, I said. “This gentleman who served you. What did he look like?”

The boy frowned as he tried to recall.

“It is strange”, he said at last. “He had short-cropped black hair, spectacles, sideburns.... yet he was a bit like you, Uncle Sherlock.”

I tried not to let those last two words force me into a Moment as I processed that information. It sounded suspiciously like my twin brother Sherrinford up to his tricks again. But to what end?”

“What else was in the bag?” I asked.

“Someone had written something on the receipt”, the boy said. “I was sure that it was blank when he put it into the bag with my things, but there was a warning – quite a long one – that someone close to me should be prepared for the worst when someone that they loved went 'out on a limb'.”

I could make neither head nor tail of that message but if it was my twin then I needed to be on my guard against yet another upset in my and John's lives. As if we had not have more than our fair share of those over the years! I was by this time a lot more careful about which cases I chose to take on; I was actually being offered more than at any time in my career thus far but I now eschewed any where I felt there was even the remotest degree of danger involved, as I wished for my current happiness – my current ecstasy if truth be told – to last as long as possible. 

It was a nice wish.

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I had been compelled to tell my beloved a small lie when I had claimed that family matters were once more a problem, as I knew he would not press me over that. That was not a complete fabrication; John was much as if not more than my blood family. My sole consolation was that the message had only been to prepare, not that disaster would actually befall one or both of us. Although with our luck so far this decade, who knew?

I had managed to put the matter out of my head for a while by the most effective expedient of telling John last night that he do whatever he wanted with me. Certain parts of my body might not be on speaking terms with me as a result, but I fully understood the oft-expressed oxymoron about a 'glorious ache', even if I had borrowed one of John's cushions this morning.

All right, two. I had not needed them but his pleased smirk had been worth it. It maybe also explained why it was one of those exceedingly rare (well, rare-ish) 'all John's bacon morning', which was even better!

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It was about an hour later that we had a caller. Betty brought up his card.

“'The Reverend Hugh Britten'”, I read. “'The Vicarage, Tenterden, Kent.'”

“That was in the newspapers the other week”, John said casually.

“Why?” I asked.

“They are building one of those new 'light railways'† to the place like the one up at Seahouses where we met Doctor Winchelsey”, he said. “I think Tenterden used to be a quite important place, but they never built a railway there so it fell behind.”

That was quite likely, I thought. Stevedon, scene of our recent monastic-themed murder, had shown the signs of if not decay then lack of growth due to the railway passing it by and I had read some time back about the sufferings of towns in the remoter parts of Cornwall and Devonshire which had claimed that people and businesses had abandoned them for places that had become railway-connected before their own. One really could not stand in the way of progress.

“I wonder what he can want?” I mused. “Perhaps problems with the new railway? Some people do not take well to change.”

“It is not even built yet”, John said. “It must be something else. Let us have him up and find out.”

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The Reverend Britten was in many ways the archetypal English vicar; around fifty years of age, short, bumbling, forgetful (he could not seem to locate the spectacles that were perched on his wide forehead) but also clearly very determined. It was really unfair of my brain to choose that particular moment to suggest that our obliging local shop might run to a vicar's costume for one of us....

I had probably just earned myself some extra time in Purgatory for that thought. But at least John would be there with me, judging from the redness of his own face!

“I am hoping that you may be able to use your influence to avert a local problem that has arisen on the Weald”, our visitor began. “It concerns a dead body.”

My eyebrows shot up. That was certainly direct.

“I think you had better begin at the beginning, sir”, I said firmly. “Let us start with the body. Do we know who it is?”

“There is the chance that it may be King Hlothere.”

He said this as if I should have known full well who this personage was. I looked hopefully across at John.

“An ancient king of Kent in the late seventh century when it was still an independent kingdom”, he said. “One of the best of his time, which was shortly after the famous King Penda of Mercia.”

“It was all rather tragic”, the vicar mused as if he were considering events only the other week rather than some twelve centuries past. “King Hlothere's nephew Egbert was too young to succeed at a dangerous time when the Kingdom of Mercia was particularly aggressive, so he stepped up for him and defended the kingdom. Rather than show any gratitude said nephew went and had him killed. But that is families for you.”

 _Indeed_ , I thought, ignoring John's smirking from across the room. _Families!_

“I would have thought that there was little way of ever knowing If the body was that of our slain monarch”, the vicar said, “except that some little distance from the body there was found a small hoard of coins and the remains of a Jutish helm. I am not really an expert on such things but Mr. Pennington, the amateur archaeologist who was visiting the area and found them, is very hopeful. He has written to someone who he knows at the British Museum and who is an expert on such things, and asked that they might come down to examine them.”

“He cannot bring the items to London?” I asked. The vicar shook his head.

“There are two problems with that”, he said. “The helm is very fragile after all that time in the ground; a small part broke off when it was extracted. Also the land where the body was found is regrettably in dispute. We have two landowners at opposite ends of the town and I am sorry to say that they are being _most_ difficult about the whole thing.”

“I suppose that they are seeing an opportunity to seize both the riches and the glory”, I sighed. “It is not as if you unearth such things every day.”

“As a matter of fact we do.”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Not the treasure”, he said, “but sad to say several bodies have come to light in John Best's Field as the place is called. Kent has as I am sure you are both aware often been the centre of rebellion against those in power in London, and the field was where a group gathered as part of the famous Peasants' Revolt in 1381. Unhappily for them the then-sheriff had some of his archers brought in and many of the rebels were cut down. Some time after the main revolt was put down, he was slain by several of the locals and no-one was ever brought to justice for it. Such were the times, I suppose.”

I saw something there.

“You mentioned that an expert was coming down from the British Museum”, I said. “Do you have date for his arrival?”

“Yes, in two days' time”, the vicar said. “Why? Is that important?”

“I rather think that it is”, I said. “Tell me more about these two landowners who claim an ancient king and his treasure for themselves.”

“Mr. Owen Jones inherited the Wittersham estate from his father two years ago”, the vicar said with a sigh. “My good lady wife, one of the mildest and most gentle people ever to walk this earth, recently described him as 'a puffed-up little pipsqueak who I would like to strangle until his pips squeaked'. Incredibly that is one of the kinder things that I have heard said around the village; old Mrs. Price made a quite improper suggestion as to where she should like to shove her walking-stick! As a Christian I do try to be charitable but unfortunately my wife knows that she is right on this. Mr. Jones's late father owned the field and sold part of it off but the dispute is over just how much.”

“Ethelbald, Lord Bulverhythe, is the gentleman who purchased the land from old Mr. Jones then sold it on to the council for building land”, he went on. “That caused even more bad blood; Mr. Jones had thought that it could not be used for houses otherwise he would have demanded a much higher price for it, but Lord Bulverhythe knew that the council had agreed to that. His wife sits on the council so I presume that she must have told him. The body was found in the disputed area so both men are claiming it.”

“What about the treasure?” John asked.

“On Lord Bulverhythe's land”, our visitor said.

“That is why the expert is important, then”, I said. “If the two can be tied together then legally they are treated as one, with the body marking the actual _locus_. I presume that there is no chance of these two landowners of yours reaching a settlement to split any proceeds from a future sale?”

The vicar just looked at me. I smiled.

“We will go with you down to Kent today”, I said. “But first I wish to put in place certain arrangements. If you care to amuse yourself in this fair city of ours vicar, we shall meet you outside the W. H. Smith's stand on Victoria Station at two o' clock precisely.”

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Miss St. Leger really needed to be persuaded to take over the government, I thought a few hours later as we bowled along the South Eastern Railway line from Tonbridge. The folder that her agent had handed to me at Victoria had been incredibly comprehensive given the short time frame involved.

We were moving along at a fair pace and I mentioned that fact to the vicar. He nodded.

“The South Eastern Railway is, mercifully, now in a state of truce with its deadly rival the 'Chatham'”, he said. “My son is interested in railways and has followed their battles most avidly. He expects a merger of some sort quite soon, if only because the war between the two has left them both all but broken. Although sadly it is too late for us.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. John had departed to use the facilities and we were alone for a moment.

“Tenterden has been the target for many lines across Kent for nearly half a decade now”, he said. “This new light railway is our joining the modern world at long last. Reconnecting the last limb, so to speak.”

I tensed at that word but managed to hide my reaction.

“Why a limb?” I asked carefully.

“It is all to do with the Cinque Ports”, he said as John rejoined us. “Have you heard of them?”

I silently thanked my lucky stars that John had not got back half a minute earlier. We were far too well attuned to each other for me to hide much from him these days. Even so he looked curiously at me, clearly sensing that something was not quite right. Deflection.

“I rely on the doctor here to be my walking encyclopaedia!” I said teasingly. 

Just as I had hoped my love scowled at my teasing, and promptly set about proving me right.

“The Cinque Ports‡, from the French for the number five, were towns which provided ships for the king's navy in return for tax concessions”, he said. “The original five were later joined by two so-called 'Antient Towns', Rye and Winchelsea.”

I thought back to our recent case in Romney Marsh and our subsequent train journey through both those towns. Judging from John's slightly red face he was thinking much the same (we had some seriously embarrassing memories between us!). More importantly my deflection had worked; he would hopefully forget my abstraction earlier.

“Most of the seven ports 'farmed out' some of their rights to other towns along the coast along with a share of the tax concessions”, the vicar explained. “These smaller ports were called 'limbs' and Tenterden was one of them. Like the originals some are still thriving while others like Northeye which was near Hastings have been swamped by the sea.”

“I thought that Tenterden was quite some way inland?” I asked (I had looked at a map before leaving Baker Street).

“It is now”, our visitor said, “but before Romney Marsh was drained there was a large bay south of the town and the nearby hamlet of Smallhythe, as the name suggests, was a landing-place. The Isle of Oxney was then truly and island, not just a place surrounded by rivers like it is today.”

I hoped fervently that this was not to be our 'dangerous limb'. I did not usually bring my own gun with me on cases these days as John was far and away the better shot, but I had this time if only because I had had so little time to check things out beforehand. John of course had his, as always.

“I had time to make some inquiries before we met up again”, I said. “I believe there was some matter over a couple being made homeless concerning your two arguing landowners?”

The vicar nodded. 

“That would be the Halls down in Rolvenden, a village near the town”, he said. “A sad case; the vicar there Mr. Pontin told me about it. Mr. Jones owned the land and wanted to knock their place down so that he could build three or four houses on it. They had a tenancy agreement for twenty years they had signed with his father, but he waited until they were away one day and had his men knock it down. They had to move into a tumbledown ruin out on the St. Michael's road; they could not afford a lawyer to fight their case.”

“This archaeologist is a local fellow?” I asked. 

“A real Kentishman¶, from Canterbury”, he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I think that we may be able to effect a compromise that suits everyone”, I smiled.

He looked at me in surprise but I felt that I had every right to be confident. Although I was still worried about that limb.

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At the vicar's recommendation we stayed at a small hotel in the town's high street that looked a little questionable from the outside but was warm and cosy once we were in. Even better, they served bacon for dinner!

“You are like our friends the Great Cake-Detectors!” John teased. “Any thief trying to escape would just have to drop loads of cake for them and bacon for you, and they would be safely away.”

“What sort of thief just happens to carry both cake and bacon around with them?” I asked innocently. “Besides, I need the energy so I can fuck your brains out tonight.”

He looked at me in horror. We were ensconced in a small nook in the place with our food but there were people not that far away.

“How can you say things like that in public?” he hissed, his eyes wide. 

“Because”, I said simply, “I love you.”

He really could turn very red!

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Not as red as he was just now, perhaps. It was a few hours later and we had retired to our room. John was for once actually looking fearful.

“What brought all this on?” he gasped as I pounded into him as if his prostate had caused me some grievous offence and needed to be severely punished.

“I love you!” I growled. “I do not say that often enough, but I believe actions can speak louder than words!”

He whined as I reached forward to tweak both his nipples and his cock twitched feebly as he tried to come for the third time in under half an hour. Not happening.

“You only have to say....” I began.

“I will tell you when I have had enough”, he grunted. “Either that or I will just pass out. But you had better fuck me a few times if I do, just to make sure I am out.”

“I do not deserve you”, I growled. “But I am working on that.”

I managed to change my angle and caught his prostate much harder. His arms and legs twitched violently then he sank back on the bed. Moments later he was snoring gently.

Well, he had said to make sure....

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The Reverend Britten looked at me in astonishment, fortunately missing the fact that someone else was taking an inordinately long time in sitting down. 

_“They actually agreed to it?”_ he asked incredulously.

“They did”, I said, smiling at the cleric's amazement. “I pointed out that as the items, if they were what they seemed, were legally Crown property since they belonged to an ancestor of the Queen, and that I was authorized to allow one of the gentlemen to buy them if they handed the money to the expert coming down since they were authorized to receive it. Her Majesty will then arrange for it to be deposited into an account for Good Works.”

I had also advised Lord Bulverhythe that perhaps a substantially lower bid on his part might be advisable. I had not told him all that I knew, but I was sure that he had got the message. Sometimes winning was not everything.

“Are you all right, doctor?” the vicar asked, belatedly noting John's discomfiture. I risked a smirk as I was out of the vicar's line of sight and I knew it would annoy John.

“Just a bit of a rough night”, John said, looking pointedly at me.

My smirk was not _that_ bad!

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It had been a hilarious day. Even the vicar could not suppress a slight smile when we met some time later that afternoon.

“I did wonder if Mr. Jones was actually going to expire”, he smiled. “Who could have known that Mr. S. Elbury of the British Museum was actually Mrs. Jane Elbury of that estimable institution?”

“At least Mr. Jones was happy with his bid being the highest”, I said. “He is now the proud possessor of one ancient king, or more importantly as far as he us concerned, his relics. It seems that one can indeed buy history.”

 _Best of all, we have sorted this whole thing out without facing any danger_ , I thought. _What a relief!_

Ah.

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The vicar arrived at our hotel the following day just as we were preparing to leave for our carriage to Headcorn and the train to London. He was most disconcerted.

“You will not believe what has happened, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed. “That expert from the British Museum who came down was a fraudster! A real one arrived today – a Mr. _Stephen_ Elbury – and he said that the helm was a forgery while the body was just another from the Peasants' Revolt!”

“Really?” I said innocently.

John looked at me sharply. As I said, he really did know me too well.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “He told Mr. Jones that the whole set was worthless!”

“Doubtless Mr. Pennington has some questions to answer, then”, John said.

“Doubtless he would have had”, the vicar agreed, “except that he has vanished! He left his lodgings with an unknown lady last night and has not been seen since! And a telegram sent to the British Museum has yielded not a trace of Mrs. Jane Elbury. Whoever she was, she has vanished off the face of the earth and with Mr. Jones's money!”

“Dear me”, I said. “How very unfortunate. I shall of course make what inquiries I can into this matter, but frankly I do not hold out much hope. It seems to me to have been a thoroughly professional job.”

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We went first to the local police-station where I told the constable there what little I could tell him, then we continued on our way to Headcorn. John looked suspiciously at me the whole way there but with our driver only a short distance up front he said nothing. Once were on the train however he cornered me.

“All right!” he said firmly. “Spill?”

“Had we not better jam the door before we start taking our clothes off?” I asked innocently. I had the pleasure of seeing him seriously considering it before he dragged his mind back on track.

“I do not believe this is a failed case at all”, he said. “You were up to something. Do you know where Mr. Pennington has gone?”

“Back into the world of fiction where he belongs”, I said.

He just stared at me. I smiled perhaps a little too knowingly.

“Remember the story about how the unpleasant Mr. Jones forced the Halls out of their home?” I asked.

He nodded.

“The husband and wife determined to have their revenge”, I said. “Mr. Hall was already quite learnéd about archaeology, so disguised himself as a bearded expert on the subject. Coincidentally there is a fellow called Mr. Pennington in Ashford who specializes in that field of study – except that he is currently away on a dig in the Holy Land. Mr. Hall assumed his identity.”

“He knew that any find would have to be verified so he checked through the lists of people at the British Museum and found a Mr. Stephen Elbury. His wife, also having read something on the subject, came down a day ahead of the real expert's expected time, knowing full well that the sheer horror of a _female_ expert would likely deter any awkward questions. The find having been verified, Mr. Jones happily handed over a small fortune in cash – to the very lady whose house he had destroyed.”

“That is wonderful!” John chuckled. “Is that why you arranged the bidding process for him?”

I nodded.

“I told him that I knew his game and offered to help”, I said. “I also advised Lord Bulverhythe to bid low; I did not tell him all but I was sure that he understood. I am sorry I was unable to bring you in but as we both know, you are a terrible liar except when it comes to your patients and the occasional necessary half-truth.”

He accepted that far more readily that I could have hoped, and I smiled in relief. Everything had worked out, and we were away from the 'limb' where danger had doubtless been waiting for us somewhere. Well, it had missed us.

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Like John so often says, I really should have known better.

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_Notes:_   
_† The railway was indeed built from Robertsbridge to Tenterden and later on to Headcorn but it was never a financial success and closed in 1954 after barely half a century of existence. Despite a government attempt to block it, ten miles of the southern part of it (Tenterden to Bodiam) has since been restored as the heritage Kent & East Sussex Railway and they are as of 2020 working on the last three miles from Bodiam to the main line at Robertsbridge._   
_‡ The original five ports were Hastings, New Romney, Hythe, Dover and Sandwich; only Dover is a major port today along with its limb Folkestone. Nowadays the term 'limb' only applies to the seven major sub-ports which included Tenterden, not the other twenty-eight Connected Towns._   
_¶ In the ancient Kingdom of Kent there was often a divide between the eastern and western halves of the county, the dividing line being the River Medway. Those to the east, where the kingdom had been founded, regarded those to the west as not true Kentishmen. Canterbury and Tenterden both lay in the eastern half of the county. This was also reflected in the small area having two dioceses, Canterbury and Rochester._

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	4. Case 245: The Adventure Of The Injudicious Judge ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. The advance of women in society continues albeit at a slow pace, and not without the odd hiccough. Inspector LeStrade smells something off when the country's first ever lady magistrate starts receiving death threats, so he approaches his friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

_[Narration by Inspector Gawain LeStrade]_

At times like this I felt every one of my fifty-four years. At least that old misery Toby was just a few months behind me so he felt the same.

“I don't like this Lady Black thing”, I said as we sat down for coffee (and of course cake) one fine August morning. Val had insisted that we 'spend time together' for some strange reason; because I was not the least bit afraid of her and just an obliging fellow, I had agreed. 

Look, Toby was afraid of her too!

“A woman magistrate is always going to be something, especially when she is the first one”, he said equably. “Her case is on your patch, not mine, so what has she done?”

“She says she's been receiving death threats from some fellow she put away for poaching”, I said, frowning. “I suppose someone in her position is bound to make loads of enemies but you don't risk upsetting the law over something as minor as poaching. Seems wrong somehow.”

“We do not see that many poaching incidents in London”, he said.

“Happened out on her country estate in Essex, near a place called Saffron Walden”, I said. “Middle of nowhere but she's a magistrate for the county, and it was her estate the bird had been pinched from.”

He looked surprised at that.

“One measly bird?” he asked. “Surely she should not have been hearing the case if it involved her own estate? A conflict of interest, his lawyer would have surely said?”

“He couldn't afford a lawyer”, I said, “and her lawyer said that the bird must have come from her place as she raised or bred them, whatever you call it. I think she was just out for a bit of revenge.”

“I still do not see it”, he complained, making his usual mess of a perfectly good slice of carrot-cake. “There has to be more to it.”

I suspected he was right, for all he was such a messy eater.

“She is sure these death threats she has been receiving are from the fellow, a scruffy oik called Perks”, I said. “I've a feeling she may be covering something up, but because she's a toff the heat is on to do something about it.”

“Why are you even involved?” he asked curiously. “Surely it should have been an Essex case?”

“Perks has a brother in London and he was visiting him when this all blew up”, I said. “Bert Chapman up there asked me to take him in for questioning; Her Ladyship Does Not Like him because he doesn't kowtow to her like any normal member of the plebs should. Know thy place, peasant!”

“And she got you instead!” Toby grinned. “What is that saying again; out of the frying-pan.....”

I glared at him. I would have taken his cake away but he had almost finished it, the greedy sod. Besides, Val would have been annoyed with me and I was... considerate of her feelings.

“I think I shall ask our Mr. Holmes to look into it”, I said.

He chuckled for some reason.

“What?” I asked testily.

“Baking day at 221B tomorrow”, he said.

I snorted. As if that would affect whether or not I visited a friend!

“Mrs. Malone always gives me a couple of extra slices on the way out”, I said. “One each for you and Valerie.”

“Fair enough”, he said. “I suppose that I had better start looking for something to ask him about when the next baking day comes round.”

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I don't know why Doctor Watson rolled his eyes at my arriving to their room at the same time as a most delicious-looking chocolate cake. That was the doctor's favourite – it was shameful the way he went after anything to do with chocolate – and I knew Mr. Holmes would not be touching his slice so his friend could have it later. 

Although from the look of him, he'd had 'it' earlier as well! Oh well. Each to his own.

“I'm here about the death threats to Lady Marjorie Black”, I said. “Unpleasant woman who does nothing for her cause, but one with connections and she has used those to land me with the case rather than her local sergeant because he doesn't bow and scrape enough to her majestic satisfaction.”

Mr. Holmes set his slice of cake aside (I may or may not have looked wistfully at it) and looked pointedly at the doctor who was just about to start on his own. The latter sighed heavily.

“The first female magistrate in England”, he said. “Her husband, Lord Ravel Black, is something of a loudmouth and she is worse. They have no children thankfully for all Mankind, and spend most of their time on their estate in Essex, thankfully for London!”

He really was very catty for someone who.... no, I so did not want to think about that!

“What is the case, LeStrade?” Mr. Holmes asked, smiling that annoying smile of his. I was only grateful that he could not read minds and all; if he knew I was taking cake home to my lifelong enemy I'd never have heard the last of it!

“She heard a case against a local fellow, Bob Perks, who was accused of poaching a bird – a partridge – from her estate”, I said. “Conflict of interest as they say but she sent him down for quite a spell, and he didn't like it. Now she says she's getting death threats from him.”

“Someone else to add to the latest volume of people who loathe her”, the doctor muttered. 

“Why do you have the case if it is in Essex?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Her influence”, I said. “Perks was visiting his brother on my patch in London when she decided to kick up a stink – she doesn't like the local copper as like Perks, he doesn't bow low enough for her satisfaction – so London got saddled with the case.”

Mr. Holmes looked curiously at me.

“I can see at least three problems with your story right away”, he said. “This man who is so poor that he has to poach a bird from a local magistrate, yet has enough money to visit his brother in London?”

“I thought that”, I said, “but there's no mystery there. The brother is actually quite well-off although they rarely talk; I think the brother's wife who has the money doesn't like having him around. From what was both said and not said I think the brother was angling to have him move to London while his wife was against it.”

“I do not like this”, Mr. Holmes said, much to my surprise. “I shall need to contact Miss St. Leger and find out a few things.”

“You think it serious?” I asked. It was annoying for sure, being saddled with a case for someone so damn unpleasant, but surely not that important? It was just a stolen bird, or not.

“I do”, he said. “Another thing. Surely someone of Mr. Perks's station in life cannot write, even in this day and age?”

“He has two sons almost grown”, I said, “so I presume she's claiming he got one of them to do it. Modern education and all.”

“I rather think that we need to go to Essex today”, Mr, Holmes said, looking at someone who had incredibly finished his own slice of cake and was now looking at that of his friend like he was considering eloping with it. Honestly, some men these days!

“John?” Mr. Holmes said, smiling again for some reason. I tucked quickly into my own cake while I still had it.

The doctor spared one last lustful gaze at Mr. Holmes's slice of cake before going over to look at a railway timetable.

“Her estate is a little way west of Saffron Walden”, he said, “so it would probably be quicker to leave the train at Audley End Junction and take a carriage from there. The next train from Liverpool Street is in just under an hour.”

“Excellent!” Mr. Holmes said. “I shall have time to write a note to Miss St. Leger before we go. John, you had better have my cake!”

Now _that_ was most definitely a whine! Honestly, some fellows!

I made my exit, not forgetting to call in on Mrs. Malone for the extra cake.

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I knew that Mr. Holmes could move fast at times but even I was surprised when, the very next day, I heard officially that the Black case was to be shelved with Lady Black having decided to not pursue the matter. I wondered if the fact that there seemed to have been some sort of shooting incident on the edge of her estate yesterday was involved. Come to that, I wondered if Mr. Holmes had been behind it; you never knew with the likes of him!

Fortunately the gentleman himself dropped by my station later that day to explain all.

“What I did not like about the case”, he explained, “was the motive. Or in this case the lack of motive; magistrates make a whole host of enemies yet Lady Black's persecution of Mr. Perks seemed to have a particular vindictiveness about it that worried me, let alone over something as small as a single bird. It was a good thing that we did go down to north Essex yesterday – a delightful area, by the way – because earlier that day Lord Black had been round with his gun and two of his equally armed staff, threatening Mr. Perks.”

“But why?” I asked. “I mean, they have everything and he had nothing.”

“That was the motive”, he said. “He had _almost_ nothing – but he did have a small plot of land that Lady Black coveted. The other side of Mr. Perks's cottage was where we found the motive – a large field owned by Lady Black which had been earmarked for development. But that could only happen if a road could be got to it – and the only way in that did not involve great expense was through Mr. Perks's small plot of land. Unfortunately for Her Ladyship the rent on his house was fixed for years to come so she might never have got him out. Hence she took the opportunity of his alleged poaching to try to drive him to quit for London. She even had him watched.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“That was the other thing that worried me”, he said. “I made some inquiries and found that as you said the local sergeant, a most excellent fellow, had actually stood up to her. Hence she needed the investigation shifted elsewhere, somewhere that she might try to assert her undue influence. She waited until Mr. Perks went to visit his brother in London before suddenly making a fuss. That was my point about his trip; not just the expense but that the case arose at exactly the moment that suited her ends.”

“And they say our city criminals are bad”, I sighed.

“Fortunately I have several friends in the journalistic industry”, he smiled, “and the newspapers today will not make pleasant reading for her. The social pages are particularly cutting, and she will soon be asked to 'stand down' from her judicial role with the understanding that that 'request' will not long remain a request if she declines.”

“Good!” I smiled.

“A happy ending all round”, he said, rising to his feet. “I must be back to the doctor now, to ensure that he has a happy ending too!”

I glared at him for that. He hesitated at the doorway.

“Oh I nearly forgot”, he said far too innocently. “I hope that Valerie and.... 'Toby' both enjoyed their cake!”

Sometimes I wondered why I put up with the know-all. Harrumph!

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	5. Case 246: The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Three of the duo's cases in that year would have an Egyptian connection. In the first Sherlock has more criminals than he can shake a stick at, two men in odd costumes, and an ancient piece of jewellery which places someone in mortal danger.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Many of our cases began with someone entering 221B Baker Street, seating themselves in the famous fireside chair and telling us of a case that they needed our (all right, Sherlock’s) help in solving. 

This one began when the devil himself came charging through the door, then promptly slipped and fell flat on his face! 

And an angel of the Lord was close behind!

Plus we had one of the most obnoxious policemen in all London Town.

Otherwise it was a perfectly normal evening.

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It was a cold misty evening in September and I was grateful for the blazing fire burning merrily in our grate. I was reading through my notes on our recent cases and thinking privately that my writing was indeed degenerating to Standard Received Doctor Scrawl. It would be a bad day indeed if I ruined the re-telling of a case solely because I could not read my own handwriting and someone's nodding was annoying again! 

Sherlock was sat reading some ancient treatise on Greek literature and looking even more owlish than usual in his reading-glasses. It was all wonderfully domestic except possibly for the bit where I kept thinking about sex with Sherlock while he kept his glasses on (as I said, it was a perfectly normal evening). And I just knew that the slow smile the blue-eyed bastard was putting out meant that he knew full well the effect his new eye-wear was having on me. He would pay for that later! 

Or I would. I was not fussy. I won either way!

Our quiet evening in was curtailed by a sudden pounding on 221B's front door far below which along with the rapid ringing of the bell suggested more than a degree of urgency. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me and we listened as the door was opened presumably by a maid. There was no gunfire so Miss Thackeray who I knew was downstairs must have deemed the visitors acceptable, and soon there was a sound of at least two sets of feet pounding heavily on the stairs. Before we could rise to our feet the door burst open – and there was a man dressed all in red as the devil, complete with a long pitchfork on which he was leaning while trying to catch his breath!

That, incredibly, was only the first shock. The second one was the fellow who raced in just after him and was dressed like an angel! And the third was that his appearance meant that we recognized both gentlemen – our acquaintances Mr. Marcus Crowley and the Reverend Asa Rival!

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This heaven-and-hell entrance would have been dramatic enough as it was but, having briefly recovered his breath, Mr. Crowley lurched forward and tried to execute a sharp turn on the rug by the door only to fall flat on his face with an exclamation of pained anguish. His friend sighed and quickly hauled him back to his feet. Mr. Crowley's expression was one of barely-concealed terror.

“Mr. Holmes!” the vicar ground out. “You have to help us!” 

The words were barely out of his mouth when we had our next interruption of the evening (seriously, we were going to have to start issuing tickets at this rate!). Three large policemen surged through the open door behind Mr. Crowley, and advanced on him. I groaned inwardly when I recognized the one in the lead as the obnoxious Sergeant Craig Whitefeather, a dour-faced newcomer to the metropolis. Indeed his station did not even cover Baker Street, much to my immense relief. What was the annoying, overweight, pompous, self-righteous, racist, moronic, oafish waste of space doing in _our_ home?

_(I may just possibly not have had the highest opinion of this personage, as more than one of his constables had told me of disparaging remarks that the incompetent rat-faced blundering moronic numbskull had made about both Sherlock and our friends Gregson and LeStrade. Just possibly)._

“Mr. Marcus Crowley!” the sergeant panted, his face red with the great effort all those stairs. “I arrest you.... in the name of.... the law!”

He advanced on the oddly-dressed acquaintance of ours only for the Reverend Rival to smoothly put himself in the way. The sergeant glowered at him but was clearly too exhausted to push past him. 

“In case you have not noticed, sergeant”, Sherlock said pointedly, “you are on _my_ private property.”

“Following a suspected felon!” the sergeant snapped, recovering his breath. “Take him, lads!”

He moved as if to push the vicar aside, but the smaller man easily grabbed him, span him round and hurled him hard against the nearby wall. The two constables, I noted, did not exactly rush forward to their superior's aid. They were probably too busy trying to suppress those smiles.

“Sergeant”, Sherlock said smoothly, “you and your men will wait in the downstairs lobby. _Not_ outside this door; in the lobby. Mr. Crowley is engaging me to investigate his case” – he glanced at our still panting visitor who looked frankly terrified – “after which the Reverend Rival will escort him down to you.”

“But….” the sergeant began.

“Or do I have to send a telegram to my good friend _Colonel Bradford_ about certain of his officers proving so incompetent that they cannot respect the time-honoured tradition that an Englishman’s home is his castle?” Sherlock said coldly. “Also to suggest to him that he perhaps needs to take the time to review whether some of them deserve their positions if they cannot grasp a basic tenet of English law that has existed for nearly three centuries?”

I smiled at that threat. Colonel Sir Edward Ridley Colborne Bradford, Baronet, was then the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and he had written to Sherlock on more than one occasion to thank him for his assistance in various cases. He was thus the person with the power to sack (please please please!) our unwelcome visitor. 

The sergeant scowled.

“One of my men will be on the stairs”, he snarled. “Boys!”

The two constables followed him out though I caught both of them shooting me covert smiles when their superior's back was turned. I managed to turn the resultant laugh into a cough. Almost managed.

The reverend helped Mr. Crowley to the couch and sat beside him, while we took our normal posts. The criminal's face had faded from a red virulent enough to match his costume, and I could see that my friend was having to make an effort to avoid smiling. The cleric had obviously had plenty of practice with his parishioners as his face remained expressionless, although my long experience with Sherlock told me that there was definitely a not-smirk in there somewhere.

“Mr. Crowley”, Sherlock said. “Good evening. How may we be of service?”

The villain looked shocked at the rapid chain of developments and drew a ragged breath.

“The sergeant wants to charge me with theft of the Devil's Foot”, he said heavily. “But that’s not the worst of it! Unless they find who did it, I’m a dead man walking!”

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“As you may know”, the villain said, “I sold my country home last year and moved full-time to London, Golders Green to be exact. Sad to say one reason was that dear Cerberus passed on to that great kennel in the sky, so of course we no longer needed a large garden.”

It seemed vaguely unreal that we had one of the most dangerous criminals in the capital taking drinks with us (and dressed in a devil's costume!) while the Metropolitan Police were champing at the bit to arrest him just outside our door. Such were the lives we led, I supposed. I looked out of the window and caught Mrs. Malone returning from wherever she had been. I silently hoped that she had been out buying ammunition.

“Why does Sergeant Whitefeather suspect _you_ of this theft?” Sherlock asked, looking sharply at me for some reason. Mr. Crowley shuddered.

“This evening I went to a party at Mr. Vine’s house in Mill Hill”, he said, not looking at Sherlock for some reason.

“Marco!” the Reverend Rival said warningly. His friend blushed.

“Mr. Bercow and Miss MacIntyre were there as well”, he muttered, looking rather ridiculously like a recalcitrant schoolboy having been caught out in a lie.

I looked inquiringly at Sherlock.

“Those three, along with Mr. Crowley here, are the leading proponents of their trade in our fair city”, he explained. “Hence if something has happened to endanger the position of any one of them it would be greatly to the advantage of the other three.”

“Indeed”, the villain said. “I should add, because I know both of you are probably wondering, that there were about twenty guests all told and that it was a costume party.”

“Even I might have worked that one out!” I snorted (it was completely unfair that all three of them looked at me in that judgemental way!).

“Mr. Vine was displaying a recent purchase of his, a magnificent bracelet from the time of the Pharaohs”, Mr. Crowley continued. “A gold and turquoise piece known as the Devil's Foot, because of both the shape and the repeated attempts that have been made to steal it. It has been verified as of its time by several leading antiquarians and is supposed to be a fertility charm. He invited the three of us to look at it….”

“To boast about it, you mean”, Sherlock cut in. The villain smiled but nodded.

“You know him well”, he said. “We examined the bracelet – it was a fine piece of work, I thought – before we adjourned to the next room to discuss certain, ahem, business matters.”

“Which are only my concern in that I need to know both how long you were in there and if anyone left during that time”, Sherlock said smoothly.

“Thank you”, Mr. Crowley said, visibly relieved. “No-one left the room during the meeting which lasted a little over half an hour; the clock had struck the half-hour as we entered and the hour not long after we had left. Mr. Vine had a guard at the connecting door back to the room where the bracelet was as well as a second at the door from that room into the corridor, and a third at the balcony window.”

“Yet it was still stolen?” Sherlock said. Mr. Crowley groaned. 

“It was the oldest trick in the book!” he said glumly. “I felt such a fool afterwards. There was the sound of a small explosion, possibly a shot, from the front of the house and Mr. Vine went to investigate saying that we should wait for him. Miss MacIntyre suggested that we could pass the time by looking at the bracelet again so we went back into the other room. There was only one guard left, the one by the window. He stayed in the room the whole time that we were there.”

I do not know how, but even though there was no visible reaction I was sure that Sherlock thought that important in some way. Perhaps I was developing some of his annoying mind-reading powers?

“How long was Mr. Vine gone for?” my friend asked, shaking his head slightly in a way that was just annoying.

“I think about ten minutes or so”, Mr. Crowley said. “He was very annoyed when he came back. Some boy letting off a firework in the neighbourhood, he said.”

“Were you still in the bracelet room when he returned?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go from there and who went first?” Sherlock asked.

The criminal had to think about that one. 

“Mr. Bercow went first, back into the meeting-room”, he said. “Then myself, then Mr. Vine and finally Miss MacIntyre. There were certain, ahem, documents for us to sign that had had to be fetched from his study. I would think that there was but ten seconds between all of us. We did what needed doing – I doubt it took more than five minutes – then returned downstairs, but not through the bracelet room.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. I noted that the reverend had covertly manoeuvred his friend almost onto his lap, and was now gently patting him to help calm him down.

“This bracelet”, my friend said. “Is it particularly famous?”

“Most definitely”, Mr. Crowley said. “The owner before Mr. Vine, Lord Brading, loaned it to the British Museum for a time and I saw it there. I would have liked it for myself but I could never have afforded it.”

“Did you take it?”

“Sir?” Mr. Crowley looked shocked. I caught his friend definitely holding back a smile.

“Come now”, Sherlock said. “You know from our previous encounter that my interests lie in the pursuit of justice, not necessarily the strict letter of the law which can be a blunt instrument at times. And talking of blunt instruments I suppose that we must consider poor Sergeant Whitefeather, who is either wearing a hole in Mrs. Malone’s hall carpet or has been thrown out onto the roadway for being an annoyance. More likely the latter I suspect; if he has been truly unlucky he will have discovered that like her niece she too has a pistol and is not afraid to demonstrate that fact to slow learners. I have not heard any pistol-fire in the last few minutes, but one can still hope. Tell me, how did these associates of yours come to believe that _you_ had stolen the bracelet?”

“It must have been half an hour or so later that the hue and cry went up that it had been stolen”, Mr. Crowley recalled. “Mr. Vine insisted that it must have been one of us and pulled us all into a side-room. It was pitch-black and he put on some odd sort of blue light. Then he told us that he had protected the bracelet casing with a paint that could only be detected under this light – and my hands were glowing blue! I managed to knock over the light and get away in the confusion.”

That seemed straightforward, but Sherlock clearly saw something there from the hard look he gave the villain.

“Marco!” the vicar sighed exasperatedly. “I had a feeling that something was up with this whole thing, Mr. Holmes – Mr. Vine did not seem the costume party sort to me – so I took along a little preparation of mine. A small sachet which, when two chemicals are pressed together, acts like a loud jumping-jack. It caused as much panic as you might expect in a room full of nervous criminals who do not trust each other, which was how my friend made his escape.”

“Could anyone had transferred that paint onto your costume without your being aware of it?” Sherlock asked. Mr. Crowley thought for a moment.

“I smelled it in the cab coming here”, he said, “but it was not very strong. I shook hands only with the three people that I have mentioned, and any of them could have done it then.”

 _“Miss MacIntyre_ shook hands?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes”, Mr. Crowley sighed. “She is quite..... modern, I'm afraid.”

“I suppose that we have kept the sergeant waiting long enough”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that someone in your position has access to a high-quality lawyer so if you recall anything else of import please send it to me through them. Mr. Rival, would you please escort Mr. Crowley downstairs?”

“You will help me?” the villain asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “The price should I succeed will be the same as last time. One unspecified future favour to be honoured at a time and place of _my_ choosing, regardless of cost.”

Mr. Crowley nodded and his friend led him out of the room. Following them out and looking down the stairwell I saw that Sherlock had been right; Sergeant Whitefeather had successfully annoyed Mrs. Malone enough for her to make him – but not his constables, I noted – wait outside in the rain. She had apparently not shot him, but there was always next time.

I had no idea why Sherlock was tutting at me like that.

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“This is serious, John”, Sherlock said once I had returned to the room. “Deadly serious. We must solve this case as soon as possible otherwise the three villains will be doing their level best to undermine Mr. Crowley’s network.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” I wondered. Sherlock smiled.

“It seems an unfortunate thing to say given his costume tonight”, he said, “but I think that this is truly a case of ‘better the devil that we know’. Let us start with the hypothesis that Mr. Crowley was set up, since he is no fool and would not seek to engage me if he feared that I might prove him guilty. I know that others have tried that in the past but he is far too smart for that game. So one of the three people there must have done it.”

He thought for some time then smiled.

“I have an idea”, he said. “But we are going to have to persuade a hardened criminal to co-operate with our investigation. It will not be easy!”

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The following morning we took a cab to 'High Sands', the Mill Hill home of Mr. Jonathan Vine. I cannot say that the criminal lifestyle did him any favours in his appearance, that of a bloated blond hulk of a fellow whose designer clothes were clearly straining at their buttons. Little wonder that he needed a fertility charm; it would have needed to be a powerful one to do any good. He scowled at us from across his front room.

“Didn’t know this was your sort of thing, Mr. Holmes”, he said suspiciously. 

“I have had dealings with Mr. Crowley before”, Sherlock said politely, “and bearing in mind what is at stake here I would crave your indulgence.”

“Why?” 

“In the first place, for your own continued existence.”

The man’s eyes bulged. 

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“Consider sir, if you will, the possibility that Mr. Crowley may be telling the truth when he claimed to have not taken your bracelet”, Sherlock said gently. “Now let us follow that on and assume that either Miss MacIntyre or Mr. Bercow is guilty. Especially when one looks at how much _they_ have to gain in such a situation.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Let us talk plainly”, Sherlock said. “You are all criminals.” He held up his hand when the fellow looked set to protest. “I know people talk about the concept of 'honour among thieves' but I am here to represent Mr. Crowley, who is a criminal. I do not disillusion myself as to that fact; the demands of justice mean that I must strive to represent and give justice to _all_ without fear or favour. As my friend the doctor rightly says, the day that society starts deciding that certain types of people are undeserving of justice we are on a slippery and very dangerous slope. I merely wish to see justice done, and I firmly believe it is in your interests to see that too. Remember, both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow had the chance to take the Devil's Foot as well.”

“Neither Virginia nor John would ever behave in such a manner!” the man spluttered.

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward. 

_“You are prepared to stake your life on that?”_

The criminal shuddered.

“What do you want?” he asked warily.

“To interview the three security guards who you had stationed around the bracelet”, Sherlock said. 

“They are my most loyal men”, Mr. Vine said testily. “They would not betray me.”

“Yet your bracelet is gone”, Sherlock pointed out.

The big man reddened at that.

“Ah”, he said.

We both looked hard at him.

“'Ah?'” Sherlock said. 

“I may have, sort of, um, found it this morning”, the villain admitted, red-faced. “I was examining the stand on which the case had been mounted and felt something sticking out from under the covers on the table. It turned out to be the bracelet.”

Sherlock eyed him coolly. The fellow visibly wilted under that azure gaze.

“You did, I presume, _immediately_ communicate this discovery to the local police-station?” he asked.

“I was just going to.” 

I refrained from laughing. But it was a near thing.

“May we see it, please?” Sherlock said, looking disapprovingly at the villain. “There is also the not insignificant matter as to how it got there.”

“Of course”, our host said, obviously all too glad to move on. “This way.”

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The Ancient Egyptians had produced a beautiful piece, I thought. The bracelet shone as if it has been fresh out of the goldsmith's workshop and the turquoise, which I knew was a difficult stone to work with as it is relatively soft, shone almost as blue as my friend's eyes. Sherlock spent some time examining it being careful to only touch it with his handkerchief, and even looked at the stone through the lens that he had brought along. Then he nodded as if reaching a conclusion.

“Mr. Crowley told me that two of the guards left the room at the firework explosion while one stayed behind”, he said. “I think that I only need to speak with that gentleman, now.”

“Very well”, Mr. Vine said crossly. “I trust you have no objection in my being there when you question him?”

“I would welcome it”, Sherlock said to his evident surprise.

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“Joe Brighstone, sir”, the hulking fellow before us said. 

“Sit down please Mr. Brighstone”, Sherlock said pleasantly. “I am afraid that this interview will be very unpleasant for you, so let us endeavour to keep it short.”

The huge man glanced nervously at his boss, who merely nodded.

“I have one main question for you”, Sherlock said. “Who was the lady?”

“Sir?”

“The lady who tricked you into abandoning your post, Mr. Brighstone”, Sherlock said sharply. “Kindly describe her to us.”

The fellow looked horrified but blundered into speech.

“It was after everyone had gone down, sir”, he said, his face even redder than Mr. Vine's had been earlier. “This lady came out of an upstairs lavatory and said she had heard there was a fabulous bracelet here and would I allow her to see it? I thought there no harm provided I stayed with her. But she felt a bit woozy after she put it back so I took her along and halfway down the stairs, where Benny was on guard. Then I went and stood outside the door again. The thing was there then; we all saw it!”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Who is this lady?” Mr. Vine demanded. 

“Clearly someone working for either Miss MacIntyre or Mr. Bercow”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Brighstone, did you see anyone else around this time?”

“Only the gentleman dressed as the devil, sir”, he said. “He came along the corridor as I was taking the lady down. But I'd locked the door, I swear!”

“A locked door wouldn't keep old Crowley out!” Mr. Vine snapped. “I knew it!”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “One thing that I forgot to ask Mr. Crowley when he was with us; what costumes were the rest of you wearing?”

“Costumes?” Mr. Vine asked, clearly perplexed.

“Mr. Crowley was wearing a devil's costume when he arrived at Baker Street”, Sherlock said patiently. “I like to have _all_ the facts, as sometimes the most inconsequential among them can turn out to be important. What did the rest of you wear?”

“Oh. I was Mr. Pickwick from Dickens, a rather good costume if I do say so myself. Mr. Bercow came as Robert the Bruce, kilt and all. Miss MacIntyre was Mary Queen of Scots; she always was one for queening it over people.”

“That is _most_ interesting”, Sherlock said with a knowing smile. “They have of course contacted you this morning and suggested an immediate move against Mr. Crowley's organization while he is still under arrest.”

Mr. Vine held his gaze for some moments but no-one could out-stare Sherlock when he set his mind to it. The villain blinked several times and nodded.

“How did you know that?” he asked warily.

“I have a suggestion for you”, Sherlock said. “You do not of course have to act on it, but failure to do so will almost certainly result in your death so it is quite advisable. Tell Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow that a family emergency has called you away – be sure to go somewhere as they will doubtless be watching – and that while you wish to move against Mr. Crowley with them you need twenty-four hours. You can also assure them that your sources have told you that given the seriousness of the accusations against him, Mr. Crowley cannot be released for at least three days. I will return tomorrow and tell you how it was done.”

Mr. Vine looked uncertainly at him but nodded his agreement, and we left.

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Sherlock was unusually quiet on the journey back to Baker Street and I wondered why.

“All that stuff and nonsense about the bracelet being a fertility charm!” I scoffed as we entered our rooms. “It certainly did not seem to have made Mr. Vine any the more attractive.

I jumped as Sherlock slammed the door behind me and turned to look at him. His eyes had glazed over and he looked positively feral. I gulped.

“My room!” he snarled. “Now!”

I sprinted for his door and mercifully he was still undressing so I made it to his bedside. However I had barely got off my shoes before a very naked and very horny detective was on me, all but ripping my trousers off of me before throwing me onto the bed. I tried to shed my shirt but Sherlock looked almost manic as he just pushed it up and worked me open far quicker than usual before burying himself inside me with a pleasured groan. And before I could adjust he was going straight for my prostate, jerking me off with one hand while supporting himself with the other. I had time for one brief whine before I came all over my shirt, my head falling back onto the pillow. 

Except that instead of following me over the edge as was usual, Sherlock continued to attack my prostate. Either he was exercising monumental self-control or he had applied a cock-ring to himself; I suspected the latter. Incredibly I was growing hard again which for a man of forty-five years of age was not bad going. 

Sherlock seemed to be working me around even more than usual, and I was close to a second orgasm when I felt my entrance being stretched even further. Damn it, Sherlock was pushing the vibrator in – the huge one that I had mentally nicknamed 'the rolling-pin'. That was it; I erupted for a second time, this time splattering his chest. Yet he didn't seem to slow down even then, and I whined piteously as my prostate was tortured like never before.

He worked the thing around inside me until I pretty much lost all feeling down there then removed it and pushed back in himself. There was no way I could manage a third time – or so I thought until Sherlock must have removed the cock-ring and was coming forcefully inside of me, growling fiercely as I was filled up. My eruption was weak compared to the first two and my cock was almost painfully sore but he kept going inside of me, and at some point I must have passed out because the next thing that I remembered was waking up and wondering if my legs were ever going to be able support my poor broken body again.

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Somehow I managed to get up the next morning though only to collapse on the couch. Sherlock brought me my breakfast over and fondly ran his fingers through my hair; of course the bastard was totally unaffected by my ordeal which was still damnably unfair! I made a mental note to leave the bathroom door open when I eventually took the bath I needed in case I went and collapsed in there. Also in case Sherlock wanted to come in and help me out.

He did, and did. I was so broken that I could not even stretch across the table to hand my bacon over to him, so he had to come and take it himself! Mrs. Malone really needed to invest in some lighter cutlery!

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Later that morning – there may just possibly have been a short 'recovery nap' for one of us who did not have blue eyes, and the application of a certain amount of cooking unguent that definitely did not have me cooing with pleasure whatever anyone smirked – we returned to Mr. Vine's house. The fellow was clearly champing at the bit but we had not been there five minutes before we were interrupted by one of Mr. Vine's servants who whispered something to him. He shook his head.

“I am busy”, he said. “He will have to wait.”

“If that is Inspector Bradley then you should allow him to come up”, Sherlock said. “I invited him here.”

“You did _what?”_ Mr. Vine yelled.

“I thought it best”, Sherlock said mildly. “After all a crime _has_ been committed here. And you strike me as the sort of person who would prefer that it was all sorted out quickly, today if possible. Unless you would rather that the police spend _months_ investigating every single aspect of your affairs?”

“No!” the man yelped, his eyes wide. “Send him up!”

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“While I was coming here”, Sherlock began, “one thing struck me particularly about this crime. Assuming that Mr. Crowley was innocent the real thief had to be one of his three criminal associates, surely? But a 'turf war' as the expression goes is a dangerous thing, and in this type of business it can be fatal. Like on the battlefield one is never sure if there may come a moment when ones allies may suddenly turn their coats, and on this battlefield the stab in the back can be literally just that. So I considered an alternative.”

“I supposed, what if _two_ of the other three had connived in the framing of Mr. Crowley? They would be in a much stronger position because they could form an alliance with the third person to destroy my client's organization and then choose their moment to turn on their unsuspecting temporary 'ally'. Thus it was not which of a group of people was guilty but which one was innocent. I was fortunate to establish quite early on that you, Mr. Vine, were the innocent party.”

“Of course!” he growled. 

Sherlock smiled beatifically at him. I reached an impressive twelve before the fellow broke.

“Er, how exactly?” he asked.

“Because the bauble that you have on display upstairs is a fake.”

 _“What?”_ Our host shot to his feet.

“Calm yourself, sir”, Sherlock said. “Doubtless Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow are currently having a most pleasant discussion as to how to make the maximum amount of money from the original which is currently in their possession.”

“Sir, you will have to be more explicit”, Inspector Bradley said. “I cannot enter either of these people's houses without a good reason.”

“I will tell you how the crime was committed”, Sherlock said. “It was quite ingenious, I must say. First, there were two clues in the costumes that the people chose.”

“The costumes?” Mr. Vine asked.

“Both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow chose Scottish rulers”, Sherlock said. “A natural choice for the lady with her Caledonian ancestry, but Mr. Bercow is English with only distant Welsh and French ancestors. He has no Scots blood whatsoever. However, as Robert the Bruce he was wearing a kilt. The sporran worn at the front of that item of apparel is a receptacle most ideal for storing small items such as the Devil's Foot.”

“But when did he take it?” Mr. Vine asked. “He never had an opportunity.”

“While you and two of the guards were outside investigating that conveniently-timed firework, Miss MacIntyre talked with Mr. Crowley and Mr. Bercow waited for the guard to become distracted for a moment. Since the Devil's Foot was on display at the British Museum only recently it would have featured in their catalogue and it was easy for Mr. Bercow and Miss MacIntyre to have the replica that they brought with them, the item which is currently upstairs. Mr. Bercow is an expert thief and his sleight of hand made sure that the switch was unnoticed.”

“The bastard!” Mr. Vine ground out. 

“The fact that you did not know that it was a fake upstairs showed that you were the one person not included in the scheme”, Sherlock went on. “You did however neglect to tell me one thing, namely that the idea for the fluorescent paint came from your fellow business associates. I dare say that Miss MacIntyre had some paint on her gloves when she shook hands with Mr. Crowley earlier in the evening then made sure to dispose of them before the 'theft' was discovered. Most probably in a fireplace.”

“But what about the woman who distracted the guard?” Mr. Vine asked. “What was the point of that if the thing had already been switched?”

“Because the item had to be taken at the right _time_ in order to focus suspicion on Mr. Crowley”, Sherlock said. “Lying is an inherent part of your profession, sir, but withholding information from a private detective is never in your best interests. As Mr. Brighstone said, Mr. Crowley went back upstairs later for another look at the Devil's Foot. One of Miss MacIntyre's agents was waiting for him to do exactly that. When she saw him leave the party she quickly distracted the guard so that suspicion would fall on the intended target.”

Mr. Vine blushed.

“So which of them has it, do you think?” the inspector asked.

“I would try Mr. Bercow first”, Sherlock said. “He was the one who committed the actual theft, and I am sure that he would delay handing it over for as long as possible. It is I suppose ironic that such a deeply misogynistic fellow was prepared to work with a woman to remove two male rivals, though once he and Miss MacIntyre had finished they would inevitably have turned on each other.”

“I shall go there now”, the inspector said standing up. “Thank you sir.”

“Yes, thank you”, Mr, Vine echoed. “I only hope I get the thing back.”

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He did. The bracelet was traced to Mr. Bercow's house as Sherlock had predicted, but obtaining a prosecution against them proved impossible due to the lack of witnesses. However Mr. Crowley was fulsome in his gratitude at being released (the sulky pout on Sergeant Whitefeather's face was particularly pleasurable!) and our criminal friend later told us that both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow had both subsequently decided to 'retire from the business' – although in Mr. Bercow's case it was a short retirement as he was found floating in the Thames some five months later. The assassin Mrs. Kyndley later admitted to Sherlock that it had been one of her more enjoyable 'direct removals'.

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	6. Case 247: The Adventure Of The Chimney-Sweep ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock gets down and dirty.... no, that was last night with John, sorry. Sherlock gets just dirty as he deals with a chimney-sweep who is accused of a seemingly motiveless crime – why would anyone endanger their whole livelihood for a child's doll?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I know that I have probably said this several times and/or in different ways before, but I often felt that my friend Sherlock was a great leveller in society. Those who considered themselves our social betters often came down to earth with a bump when they realized that for some strange and inexplicable reason arrant rudeness and imperious demands did not succeed in getting my friend to take then on as clients, whereas those at the bottom of society were equally often pleasantly surprised to find that a polite request did actually get you what you asked for. Yes, Sherlock, the great leveller.

He has just made a most inopportune comment about how he intends to 'level' me later. Lord help me!

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Thankfully the Lord did not, although I was able to limp the several thousand miles across the room to where some bastard had moved my chair, and then make the round-trip of a few hundred more to fetch a very necessary cushion.

Miss Thackeray was in charge of the house that day and she had just sent up to ask if we might accept a visitor. Although when the gentleman entered, we were surprised to find that we actually knew him.

“Rhys?” Sherlock asked, clearly as astonished as I was.

It was indeed 221B's resident chimney sweep, who did all three houses in what had once been Glendower Mansion. Mr. Rhys Jacobs was a tall fellow, around thirty years of age, perennially dirty (of course) but a good man and someone I counted as a friend (as in I gave him and his family free treatment as part of my socially required philanthropy). He rarely spoke unless spoken to but had come out one time during the Great Hiatus when a particularly severe winter had coincided with our main chimney getting blocked, and only his efforts had prevented several of 221B's residents, me included, from getting frostbite. 

“Miss Thackeray said that it might be all right to approach you gentlemen”, the fellow said, sounding almost apologetic. 

“”Of course it is”, Sherlock smiled, recovering. “We will do whatever we can to help. What do you need, Rhys?”

“I may be about to lose my job, sir.”

We stared at him incredulously. The idea that this fellow could have done anything wrong seemed just unthinkable. Sherlock thought for a while then bade him sit down which he did.

“As you know, Rhys”, he said, “I take cases not on how rich the client is but on whether or not their case intrigue me at all. The idea that you of all people might have committed some error that could cost you your employment – I would say that it ranks right up there with my brother Randall not only miraculously acquiring the knowledge of how to behave like a decent human being but also actually practising it!”

I smiled at the analogy, and I noted that the sweep relaxed a little.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “let us start with the facts. What exactly are you accused of?”

“Stealing, sir”, he said. “You see, I was down the far end of the street the other day doing Mrs. Barham-Phillips's house.”

I winced at that. Mrs. Juliana Barham-Phillips was one of those women's suffrage campaigners, and one who clearly had some American ancestry as she had yet to learn not to shout whatever she was saying at everyone. Either that or she just had a big mouth!

“A most unpleasant woman”, Sherlock said, nodding for some reason. “Upsetting her would be the work of an instant for most people; existing on the same planet would likely do the trick. What was her complaint, apart from her just having a big mouth?”

I stared at him suspiciously. He had better not be at the mind-reading thing again or..... well, I would not be happy! And that had better not have been another damn smirk!

“Two of her kids were in the room with me, sir”, Mr. Jacobs said. “Her eldest daughter of the same name and worse, the same manners; I think she's about sixteen. And a young tot called Elizabeth who was about four I think. She was fascinated by what I was doing – kids often are – but I was sure that her mother plonked her elder daughter there to make sure that I did not run off with anything.”

“Naturally she assumed the same lack of morals that she herself has”, Sherlock said airily. “What was it that she accused you of stealing, exactly?”

“A doll, sir.”

We both stared at him. _What?_

“A child's plaything?” I asked, wondering what else a 'doll' might be. He nodded glumly.

“Young Elizabeth lined all her dollies up so they could see me work”, he explained, “but I said that they were too close. Sometimes a whole ton of soot can come down at once see, and although I have covers to catch most of it I could see how delicate they were. There was one doll in particular, all dressed in blue and white lace, and I praised her as the girl moved them back to safety. Her sister just rolled her eyes, of course.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Has Mrs. Barham-Phillips made a police matter of this?” I asked.

“She has”, he sighed. “But what's worse is she'll go round all her neighbours and that means I'll lose a ton of trade. Her house is one of seven that I do all of down there; I can't afford to lose that many customers.”

“I think that we shall go and visit this woman at once”, Sherlock said, rising to his feet. “But before we do, another question. What earthly reason would Mrs. Barham-Phillips have for thinking you of all people would steal a child's doll?”

Mr. Jacobs blushed.

“I mentioned to Elizabeth how lucky she was to have all those dolls to herself”, he said. “I've six kids and the girls have one between them. Life.... well, you know.”

“Indeed we do”, Sherlock said. “Also we know people. Since that part of Baker Street falls under the auspices of Sergeant Adonis Andrews he will be quick off the mark for once in his miserable and overly long existence. Unfortunately for him we shall be quicker. I know that Miss Thackeray has your address, Rhys, so we shall send to you when we have news.”

“Thank you, sir.”

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“I wonder if the women's suffrage movement appreciates just how much harm the likes of Mrs. Barham-Phillips does to it?” I mused as we walked the short distance to that harridan's house (the road was so congested around this time that waiting for a cab that would have been barely faster than walking, and besides it was a fine September day). “I support the movement, but every time I read of her outpourings in the newspapers I want to oppose it just to spite her!”

“Bigots like her do not care for other people's opinions”, Sherlock said as we approached the house in question. “Anyone who cannot agree with them is clearly not worth bothering about, and indeed does not deserve the right to vote if they do so in a way that she does not approve of. Let us brave the fray!”

“I shall try not to say anything that I would not regret”, I smiled.

“Good”, he said. “Because if we can resolve the matter here then I shall send a telegram to alert Mr. Jacobs of the good news, of which he can hear the details of tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” I asked.

“Because I intend to spend the rest of the day fucking your brains out!”

Showing a terrible sense of timing, a footman opened the door at that precise moment and presumably wondered why one of the gentlemen outside was standing there with his mouth wide open. Damnation!

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Mrs. Juliana Barham-Phillips was if anything worse than I had feared. She had lived somewhere in the Midlands for a time – Oldbury in Worcestershire, I think – but had moved to London on her marriage (pity!) and, very obviously, had some elocution lessons that had clearly not come off. I quite liked the midlands accent but not when broadcast loud enough to be heard all the way to where it came from! I also had a strong suspicion that she was quietly despised by the high society that she so nakedly sought through her campaigning, but then she had money. Or at least her husband did.

“That _dreadful_ man stole my sweet little Lizzie's doll!” she said firmly, “and he _must_ be made to pay!”

“May we see the scene of the crime, please?” Sherlock asked. 

She looked at him suspiciously but.... hah, she was simpering at him and he was clearly uncomfortable with that. It even worked when he did not want it to.

As did the mind-reading; I got a glare for daring to even think of smirking! Damnation!

The fireplace in question was huge, and Sherlock frowned for some reason when he saw it. Miss Juliana Barham-Phillips had joined us presumably at her mother's request – it was most certainly not at mine – and even that unprepossessing young female was looking at Sherlock like he was the last chocolate drop in the bag.

_How did he do that?_

“You have laid a fire here since”, my friend said, sounding surprised.

“Of course”, she said, somehow managing scorn and a simper in the same look. “I was hardly going to let the idiot go without testing his work.”

Sherlock stepped forward and poked around in the fire with his stick. I could see that whatever fire had been there had not lasted long; the edges had not even been reached. My friend pulled something out of the fire and stared hard at it.

“What is that?” Mrs. Barham-Phillips asked.

I could see that it was a small fragment of blue material, with white threads hanging from it. It did not seem particularly remarkable, but something about it made my friend's face darken.

“I think that you should know, madam”, he said, “that I have many friends in the Metropolitan Police Service. The sergeant currently in charge of this case could I suspect not find his way out of a paper bag even if he had been provided with a map, and I am sure that he could easily concoct some sort of case against Mr. Jacobs, your sweep. Unfortunately for both of you Mr. Jacobs is a friend of mine, and I take ill against anyone who tries to harm him. _Of whatever age.”_

He suddenly turned on young Miss Barham-Phillips.

“Young lady”, he said heavily, “I am going to ask you a question. But before I do, it is only fair to warn you of the seriousness of your answer. Should you lie to me, the investigation into this matter will be moved to a policeman friend of mine who takes a dim view of liars, and a dimmer one of rich people who try to frame their so-called social inferiors.”

“Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Barham-Phillips protested.

“Silence!” Sherlock commanded. “Miss Barham-Phillips, was your mother in on this ramp?”

The girl looked nervously at her mother, who stared sharply back at him.

“Say nothing, girl”, she said. “We shall get our lawyer in.”

“That would be very wise”, Sherlock said. “I am sue that he will enjoy explaining to a judge who, I guarantee, will _not_ be the understanding sort as to precisely why his clients tried to frame an innocent sweep just because he dared to aspire to a doll for his daughter, when your own children have so much.”

“You are accusing _me?”_ Mrs. Barham-Phillips almost screeched.

Sherlock waved the material at her.

“When Mr. Jacobs had finished his work, he left”, he said. “Your vile daughter here decided that someone so low-born and inferior should not dare to want something that _her_ family had, so she deliberately burned the doll that he had praised in the fireplace that he had just cleaned. It is ironic that it was your own vindictiveness that betrayed her, for when she told you, you were not content merely to blacken the sweep's name in an attempt to ruin him. You decided to call in the police – but they would need evidence so, assuming that the doll was burned, you had the fire put out. Unfortunately for you madam, your child's doll spoke from the grave. A piece of her blue patterned dress not only survived, but there is even a thread of finest white satin attached to it – the same that I see on the cuffs of your eldest daughter here!”

Miss Barham-Phillips immediately put her hands behind her back. Her mother sighed.

“All right”, she said crossly. “How much am I going to have to pay to make this go away?”

Sherlock did not even try to look surprised at her attitude. I certainly was not.

“Fifty-six pounds†”, he said. “Not a penny less.”

She looked horrified!

“Why so much?” she demanded. “Consulting detectives are not that expensive, surely?”

He glared at her.

“It is rather pitiful that I have to explain such a concept to you”, he said condescendingly, “but some people have this strange practice called _philanthropy_. I shall not make a penny out of this case. The money is one pounds for each of the Jacobs children with which I shall buy a voucher that they can use in Hamley's, so that they can have at least a fraction of the toys that you bestow on your own undeserving children. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs will receive twenty-five pounds each for your attempt to ruin them. I consider these generous terms, so please note that they will remain such for” – he took his pocket-watch out – “the next five minutes, whereon I will revise them. Upwards.”

She scowled and crossed to the writing-table which she opened with her key. She extracted the required notes and coins from a metal box, and scowled mightily when Sherlock checked each one before accepting it.

“Very good”, he smiled. “One more thing, madam?”

“What?” the harridan asked sulkily.

“It may be that, being the unpleasant person that you so clearly are, you decide to try to damage Mr. Rhys's business by lying about him to your neighbours”, I said. “Be assured, that would be _most_ unwise on your part. If my friend loses a single customer in this area any time in the next few decades, your husband will be alerted as to why someone as alien to the concept of philanthropy as yourself is so inexplicably generous to your 'distant cousin Albert who lives in Bermondsey'. The one that you visit on at least a weekly basis, and always make sure to walk home from afterwards.”

I winced at the image. I knew from treating the 'boys' at Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses just why so many of them walked after a client; to rid themselves of any smells. This female.... oh Lord, I had to eat later!

“We shall bother you no longer”, Sherlock said with what was obviously a false smile. “I have to make one call before I can return to Baker Street, where I have some very hard work ahead of me.”

And with me still blushing at his _innuendo_ he ushered me from the room.

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“It is a pity that she will not face the consequences of her actions”, I said as we walked away from the house. “What is the other place you need to call at?”

“The magazine offices”, he said. “So they can have the whole story.”

I stared at him in surprise.

“I thought that you offered her the chance to buy her way out?” I said.

 _”Did I?”_ he said with what was obviously _faux_ innocence. “I rather think that I just said she should give this money to the Jacobses. Fortunately Hamley's is not far so we can swing out there and obtain the vouchers for Rhys's children. As the post-office is next door to the magazine one, we can send to Mr. Jacobs so that he may have an easy evening.”

I smiled at that.

“Unlike someone I could mention!” he said, his voice very unfairly dropping in a way that had me glad I had a loose coat on. “You, John Watson, have a very, very hard evening ahead of you!”

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As ever he was right. I had – and I enjoyed every damn minute of it!

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_Notes:_   
_† About £6,500 ($8,000) at 2020 prices. That would have been about £2,900 ($3,600) to each parent (worth much more given how poor they were) and £120 ($150) to each of the children._

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	7. Case 248: The Adventure Of The Better Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. As the march of science accelerates, the odds on Mankind opening another Pandora's Box increases – and when something out of that box in the form of someone known to Sherlock makes a bid for freedom, the results are.... interesting.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It might be autumn outside but I felt that I was in the halcyon summer of my existence, happy with John and the world in general (certain family members excluded, of course). So when a letter arrived from a lady whom I had encountered during a more troubled time in my past, I was immediately uneasy.

“What is it?” John yawned as he handed me his bacon as he very occasionally did on the odd morning. 

“A letter from Miss Viola Palliser”, I said. “She asks for our immediate assistance up in Inverness.”

It was probably the only downside of our relationship that good as I was at masking my emotions, he knew me so well by this time that it was impossible to keep much from him. Although I had certainly not kept much from him the previous night. His eyes widened as he correctly divined to which Very Happy Place my thoughts were heading, and he concentrated very visibly on his breakfast plate. There as definitely a tremble in there, too.

“I met her in Brora up in Sutherland, when I was touring Scotland in 'Eighty-Five”, I explained, knowing that the reminder of that sad time was painful to us both. “The young man of the house where she was a maid, a Mr. Bronn Blackwater, had been enlisted into the Army immediately upon his return from a trip to the Orient. He and the British Army did not get on to put it mildly, and I helped effect a settlement that was probably the best available.”

In fact the local army commander had, very foolishly, tried to hunt down a man of Mr. Blackwater's exceptional calibre. He may (in his own words) have had 'a face like a bag of spanners' but he was a far superior soldier to anything up against him, having returned from the Orient with several fighting skills that not even I had heard of. He could incapacitate or even kill a man in seconds and I had managed to persuade the Army to hire him as a trainer for their elite soldiers. He had subsequently moved to a cottage that his father had owned in Aberdeenshire for his new job and I had later assisted Miss Palliser in her move to Inverness when her house had been badly damaged in a winter storm a few years later, not long after our return from the Continent. Mr. Blackwater had also very generously taught me some of his skills, not that I would ever have used them on anyone – well, apart from certain family members!

“What does this lady want?” John asked warily.

“She suggests that as well as our immediate attendance, I use my 'no doubt extensive network of information' and find out all that I can about something called 'The Better Man Project'”, I said. “An American thing, although with that sort of name I suppose one might have reasonably worked that out. I shall send a telegram to Miss St. Leger at once; you are not on call just now?”

He shook his head and smiled, clearly eager to go with me. I had had to have a few more Words with his surgery of late because, for all they had done for him at the start of his career, they had I felt once again been over-using him of late because of his growing fame and celebrity. And he always blushed so prettily when he admitted that one or the other of his patients asked if I was seeing anyone yet!

Thankfully a quick look through the railway timetables while I was eating showed that we still had well over an hour before we would have to leave for King's Cross. Which was good as the happy man finishing his breakfast across the table from me looked even more delectable. Best of all he had given me all his bacon that morning. Life was good.

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One sexually wrecked English city doctor laid before me in all his naked glory, totally spent. I allowed myself an extra large smirk.

“What did you do to me?” he moaned. “I have never come so hard in my entire life!”

I showed him the cock-ring I had placed on him earlier. Unlike our usual ones which were designed to either totally stop or delay orgasm this one was much looser – except the ingenious inventors had fitted a slew of ball-bearings on the inside which, as the cock that it was embracing expanded, massaged it very effectively. Thank the Lord that I had taken the shop-owner's advice and fitted the accompanying gag on first (the Victorians really did indeed think of _everything!)_ otherwise we would have had policemen rushing in from the Park half a mile away!

Seeing that he was over the worst I slipped the gag down.

“That is just cruel!” he gasped.

“Yes”, I said. “I wonder if you might wear it to the next fund-raising ball for your surgery?” 

He snorted at that.

“You forget, that is the costume one”, he said. “I have already booked my kilt for it.”

I waited. He would get it soon enough.

His eyes suddenly widened in horror. _He just had!_

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We only just made the Edinburgh train, not helped by someone who limped along moaning that he was aching at every step. Fortunately this was only a few months after the second bout of the famed Races to the North (which as I have said before were not of course actual _races_ , perish the thought!), and train times for the five hundred plus miles to Aberdeen had tumbled to a most impressive ten and a quarter hours. Even a special would have been little faster, and although we would have to have a night in the Granite City there was an early train to Inverness the following morning. As I had put my love through so much already that day I graciously consented to a lot of that manly embracing that he liked which did not even remotely resemble anything that started with the third letter of the alphabet and rhymed with huddling. I did not even smirk when I held him in my arms.

I did not smirk _that_ much. Besides, he was in no fit state to object if I did, so there!

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The following morning I was pleased – and of course not surprised – that Miss St. Leger's report on The Better Man Project had been delivered to the hotel and was awaiting my collection. I read it as we headed west and..... ye Gods, it was almost as bad as one of my mother's stories except that this was real! My opinion of our cousins across the water took a very thorough beating from the contents of that document.

John waited until I was done before asking me what was in it, although I knew from his expression that he was aware just how much I had been affected by what I was reading.

“It is very bad”, I sighed. “Do you remember the Manor House Case with Doctor Adams?”

“The fellow who tried to create a modern love-potion”, he said. “A foolish thing, and a fatal one for his poor employee.”

“Yes”, I agreed. “Who _knows_ where such things might lead?”

He glared at me. He knew full well that I was referring to his trying a sample of the doctor's 'love-potion' which I had guessed that he had taken (as I said, he really was terrible when it came to covering up his emotions) and I had arranged for Tiny and Brendon from my stepbrother Campbell's molly-house to 'accidentally' call round and to pretend to be so overcome with lust by the potion that they threatened to take him right there in our rooms. It had been made even worse for him that for the next few years until the behemoth had decamped to Strafford Island, Tiny had always been so remorseful every time John had treated him and he had had to keep reassuring the huge fellow that he had not angry with him, which had only served to remind him of his mortification.

I had not smirked overly much about that, either.

“This is I am afraid much worse”, I said. “You mentioned once Mr. Galton's support for that strange field of study called eugenics, where he claimed that we could breed better humans as we do animals. It seems that the Americans have been trying to do just that.”

 _“What?”_ he exclaimed in horror.

“They have created what they call _homo superiorensis_ , literally a better man”, I said. “A gentleman whose virility is such that he can impregnate any woman and cause her to have a baby whether it is her time or not.”

There were more details on just how that was possible and what was involved, but I tried not to think of them. I wanted to keep my breakfast down for one thing.

“That is terrible!” he exclaimed. “What can they have been thinking?”

“Their main test subject was a gentleman by the name of Mr. Jaime Lannister”, I said. “Jaime, not James, which is unusual. His family lives on a small island not far from New York called Westeros Island; their ancestors came from the Wester Ross area of Ross & Cromarty in Scotland, hence the name. He fled to Great Britain and, from Miss Palliser's letter, is now in Inverness with her and Mr. Blackwater who ran into him at the railway station there.”

John had been with me long enough to know what that meant.

“The American government will send someone to try to hunt him down”, he said grimly. “Their own mini-Randall. Remove the evidence, no matter that it is a human being.”

“They already have”, I said, “and not just any someone. His widowed sister Mrs. Kersey Barras, who also works at the same institute. She is on board the 'Teutonic', due to dock at Liverpool in five days' time.”

“This could hardly be worse”, he sighed.

I looked hard at him.

“I am afraid that it is”, I said grimly. “Miss St. Leger also discovered the reason behind Mr. Lannister's flight to England. His sister was married to a neighbouring landowner Mr. Robert Barras and she had three childrenfro that marriage. None of them were her late husband's.”

John frowned, not seeing where I was heading.

“Then who.....?”

He stopped and blanched. He had got it.

“Mrs. Barras decided that her offspring should be among the first of a new breed of humanity”, she said. “She used her position at the laboratory to obtain her own brother's seed and to have her children by him without his knowing.”

He looked at me in horror. I knew how he felt. This was horrible!

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One of the stranger classes of people who we came across in our adventures together was the likes of Miss Viola Palliser, who met us on the station platform at Inverness. I had thought when we had first met that she was one of those who would have made an excellent criminal had she turned her mind to it, and it was fortunate that she was so moral and upright. She was also alone, which I thought surprising.

“Mr. Blackwater is not with you?” I asked.

“I had to send him and Jaime back to his cottage”, she said. “As I am sure you know by now Mr. Holmes, Jaime experiences these 'heats' when he becomes quite uncontrollable for a time. If he had had one in a busy town like this, I do not like to think what would have resulted. Dear Bronn can take care of him.”

She took us to her cottage before she would say any more. Thankfully she had coffee which was very welcome; the sludge on the Highland Railway that pretended to that name should have come with a health warning.

“Now”, she said, “to business. Jaime – he is a lovely boy, but I am afraid that in return for the double dose of looks that the Good Lord gave him, he more than made up for it by withholding the brains. Luckily he has sent several telegrams to his shrew of a sister which, if taken a certain way, might denote a degree of mental instability. I think that that can successfully be played on, but I need you to do your part properly.”

 _That was me told_ , I thought.

“How may we help?” I asked.

“Jaime arrived three days ago”, she said. “It really was pitiful the way Bronn looked at him; Men these days! I was quite afraid that if one of Jaime's heats broke then he and Bronn... well, I was not having those sort of goings-on in _this_ house, thank you very much! Yesterday Bronn went to Dingwall just north of here to send another telegram purportedly from Jaime, then they left for his cottage.”

I winced. Dingwall was one of the places where I had had a case during my time in Caledonia during John's Egyptian absence, where I had found that an unpleasant fellow who had been making the life of a local taxidermist miserable had ended up.... let me just say that it had put me right off stuffing. For life!

“Why Dingwall?” John asked, his face denoting that he too made made the link.

“Jaime's family came originally from Wester Ross”, she explained. “I worded the telegram to suggest that he was not only suicidal but was also 'going home'. I planned to send one last telegram from Kyle of Lochalsh at the far end of the Skye line. That is as close as one can get to Wester Ross by train. I then need to make Jaime seemingly disappear; the dear boy has left me his pocket watch and a set of his clothes.”

As I said, I was really glad that she was not of a criminal persuasion or the Ross & Cromarty Constabulary would have come to regret it. I thought for a moment.

“We need to have someone looking like Mr. Lannister be seen around Kyle and then disappear”, I said. “There cannot obviously be any body because even if we tried a substitute the Americans would demand possession. That leaves drowning.”

“We know from the Clansmen case that Her Majesty has estates on Skye”, John pointed out. “What if someone like Mr. Lannister were seen trying to get into one of those and got shot? One would not expect soldiers to take any risks with royalty.”

“That is an excellent idea!” I said, not failing to note how as so usual he reddened at any praise. “It would account for the body, and also for the diplomatic cover-up that would ensue. I can pass on to Mrs. Barras that her brother was shot and fell back into the water, his body never being recovered, and we can present the clothes and the pocket-watch as having been left behind on the beach and hence evidence that it was indeed him.”

“Very good”, Miss Palliser said. “I suppose that Men _are_ useful for some things after all!”

And that was both of us told!

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The following day John dressed in Mr. Lannister's clothes which thankfully fitted him fairly well, and we travelled across a seemingly barren landscape until we reached the west coast at Kyle of Lochalsh. It was really a quite beautiful area what with the island of Skye looming in the distance, and John went to send a final frantic telegram before leaving Mr. Lannister's clothes on the beach. I, having donned a mild disguise, meanwhile reported to the local police-station that a gentleman with an American accent had been behaving most oddly on the train coming down from Inverness, and had headed off to the beach muttering that he had to get across to Skye. Having accompanied the local policeman to the beach and made sure that he collected the things, I met John and we had a pleasant time sightseeing until the next train arrived to take us back to Inverness.

Through Dingwall again, unfortunately. But now I had someone holding my hand all the way.

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I had arranged with Luke that upon her arrival in Liverpool Mrs. Barras should be immediately tailed, and I also made sure that the local newspapers in Inverness reported that I was 'on a case of international importance' in the town. Sure enough the woman sought me out at our hotel only a day after her arrival there. 

Mrs. Kersey Barras was about twenty-five years of age and, as I said, a widow (John, being John, suggested that her choice of attire meant I should insert the word 'black' in my notes; it really was annoying when he was both catty and accurate at one and the same time!). 

“Thank you for coming”, I said gravely. “I had planned to transmit what I have just found to your government when I returned to London, but as you have a far more personal connection to Mr. Lannister I shall of course inform you first.”

Strangely she reminded me a little of Miss Palliser, except that I was certain in every fibre of my being that this woman was pure evil. She looked at me expectantly, and I could not help thinking that those perfect teeth were all the better to eat me with. If she even remotely looked like simpering at me I reserved the right to run from the room!”

I took a deep breath and extracted something from a large bag that I had ready by the side of my chair. I could see at once that she recognized it.

“Jaime's pocket-watch!” she exclaimed.

“Yes”, I said heavily. “His clothes are in here too. They were all found on a beach at a place called Kyle of Lochalsh, some distance west of here.”

“That was where he sent his last wire from”, she said, clearly anxious. “What has happened to him, sir?”

I took another deep breath.

“I tracked your brother's movements as far as here”, I said. “I am sorry to tell you that you were quite right to fear the worst and that for whatever reason he did decide to take his own life on reaching that place, which was as near as the railway network could get him to Wester Ross. Her Majesty The Queen frequents the Scottish Highlands and has estates scattered across it, including a small one on the eastern side of the island of Skye which lies across from where your brother sent his last telegram. The estate is of course guarded with soldiers so when an unknown gentleman swam across the channel and came up onto the beach belonging to it, he was challenged. When he unwrapped a gun that he had concealed in some cloths, the soldiers had no choice but to shoot at him. He stumbled back into the water and presumably tried to swim back but although a search was undertaken they were unable to find the body. They did however find this and his clothes on the mainland.”

“I have friends in the government who are sometimes helpful in matters like this. As I am sure you can understand, neither London nor Washington would welcome the scandal that this story would bring. When I mentioned to a government contact of mine that I was investigating something in the Far North, he admitted the whole thing to me. They were unable to identify the gentleman from the clothes but they knew that he was American because he had spoken to someone when leaving the railway station and that person, having been made anxious by his behaviour, had reported it to the local police-station. The government kept this pocket-watch because they hoped that someone might one day come forward to claim who 'The Kingslayer' was.”

She drew a deep breath.

“That is his”, she admitted. “He was an expert chess-player for one so young; that was how he got his name. Poor Jaime. I am sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not at all”, I said, glad that this ordeal was almost done. “I am only sorry that I could not be the bearer of better tidings. Normally I would have inquired as to what brought your brother all those fateful troubles, but given what has befallen him I would rather let him rest in peace, wherever he is.”

That is only right and proper”, she smiled. “Thank you again.”

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We said goodbye to Mrs. Barras who was mercifully heading straight back to her native country (she would be watched the whole way to make sure) and prepared to leave the following day. Not to London but to a small isolated cottage near the Aberdeenshire port of Fraserburgh where Mr. Blackwater had taken Mr. Lannister and, as I said to John, once his 'heat' started Mr. Lannister would be taking Mr. Blackwater. Frequently.

I do not know why he rolled his eyes like that. 

Arriving at Keith we changed to a Great North of Scotland Railway branch-line train to Banff, just opposite Macduff where I had assisted the now famous actor Mr. Stephen Sayers now working down in Edinburgh. John shivered and kept close to me as he tried to avoid the bitter wind blowing in off the sea, and we faced a long carriage-ride along the coast road. Fortunately the autumn weather was fine and I had thought to bring a thick rug which my love wrapped tightly around him.

“Moray is a beautiful place”, he said, “but it is so damn cold!”

We continued for some little distance before we breasted a hill, turned off the main road and soon after approached a small isolated cottage that seemed totally cut off from civilization. There was a tall blond fellow somewhere around thirty years of age working in the garden and he stood up as we approached, his wheaten hair blowing in the breeze. Despite the bitter cold he was wearing only thin clothing through which his muscles rippled; Mr. Bronn Blackwater may have had little if anything in looks but he was supremely fit. He looked at both me and John for a moment, then smiled.

“Mr. Holmes”, he said with a smile. “We meet again.”

“Mr. Blackwater”, I said. “Is he available?”

“Half a day away at most”, the fellow said. “You timed it well. Come you in.”

Inside the cottage we found Mr. Jaime Lannister, and I have to admit (because I know how much it will annoy John) that he was indeed one of the most handsome gentlemen that I had ever met. Not of course possessed of John's great beauty but handsome in that way that any right-thinking gentleman would wish to be. His handsome face lit up when he saw me.

“Mr. Holmes!”

He crossed the room to pull me into an embrace – John seemed to be finding the room a little dusty from all his sudden coughing – then we all four sat down around the fire. I turned to my love.

“John, meet Mr. Jaime Lannister.”

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Even the worst detective in the world could not have missed how Mr. Lannister planted himself very firmly on Mr. Blackwater's lap. The American was actually slightly the taller of the two but he folded himself up very neatly and was wrapped around Mr. Blackwater in what John would certainly have described as a manly embrace.

“Jaime is safe here”, Mr. Blackwater said, pulling the younger man even closer. “We in Moray don't talk to outsiders.”

Mr. Lannister shuddered and took a deep breath, and Mr. Blackwater petted his friend's ridiculously long hair.

“My parents died the year that I started college”, the American said. “I was short of dough; they had left the estate in a mess and I only got a small allowance. The money on offer for being what they called a guinea-pig was phenomenal but by the time I realized what they had done to me there was no backing out. I really was a changed man and my sister..... God but I retched when I found out what she had done!”

“How did you find out?” John asked.

“One of the scientists left his records around one day”, he said. “I cannot be sure but I think that he may have done it deliberately; I knew he was uneasy with the work for some reason but they were all watched so he could not have said anything to me directly. They showed three children, one just born, with my sister as the mother and the father as..... Lord, how could she have done something so vile? I was out of town by the end of the day and on a ship from New York for England that same evening.”

I shuddered. That someone could treat a human being like this – some people were not of the human race.

“Your sister will be watched all the way back to her homeland”, I told Mr. Lannister, “which in my opinion is just about far enough away from us all. As far as she is concerned you are no more, and only at the cost of your clothes and your old pocket-watch.”

“I liked that watch”, Mr. Lannister said softly. “But I like you more, Bronn.”

The older man blushed fiercely.

“But would an American gentleman not stick out in this part of the world?” John wondered.

“Mr. Lannister did indeed stick out”, I smiled. “Frequently!”

I got glares from both our hosts for that. John just looked confused.

“The chemical changes to Mr. Lannister's body caused him to become sexually supercharged around once a month, for about a whole week”, I said. “What Miss Palliser called his 'heats'. During that time he is ninety-nine point nine per cent certain to cause a woman to become pregnant and over ninety per cent likely to get her to have a son. One of the changes is that his natural charm makes both men and women accept such an unusual arrangement, in return for the, ahem, obvious advantages.”

“My 'heat' is due any time now”, Mr. Lannister said. “But I have to be careful, so I will spend the first one staying here. I know that I can be quite wild in the first few hours.”

“I am looking forward to it!” Mr. Blackwater grinned.

“I cannot thank you and that wonderful Miss St. Leger enough for all your help in creating my new identity as Bronn's cousin”, Mr. Lannister said. “Mr. Neil Colsterworth's birth-certificate looked so real that even I almost believed it!”

“She is a remarkable lady”, I agreed. “We had better leave you now sir, as we do not wish to be around when.... well, when. Keep 'up' the good work!”

John had no right to roll his eyes at me like that. He would pay for it tomorrow evening!

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My other regret for this trip was that I had been unable to arrange for John to spend time with his brother Stephen who was in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The latter was undertaking a major case that might well secure him a promotion and possibly even a junior partnership just then, and we had both agreed that while he would welcome a visit he did not really need the distraction just now.

We arrived at Aberdeen as I had expected too late for the London sleeper, and after a brief walk round the town found that it was as uninspiring as when I had visited it over a decade before. John expressed a wish to see St. Andrews further down the coast, which involved a slight detour off the main line south to Edinburgh but if it made him happy I would go anywhere. Beyond Dundee we crossed the second Tay Bridge, reminding us of the collapse of the first one that had brought such a terrible ending to an earlier case up here nearly two decades back (The Adventure Of the Musgrave Ritual). John liked the small town but he found the old ruined cathedral a sad place, so we walked around the shops for a time.

“This is the home of golf”, he said. “There is a course not far from Belford, and they let me play there the one time.”

“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

“I did rather”, he said smiling at the memory. 

“Shall we have a round here?” I asked. “We have plenty of time.”

“At the Royal & Ancient?” he asked dubiously.

“I am sure they would let a famous author in for a round”, I smiled. “besides, perhaps we could make it a little more... interesting?”

His breathing was suddenly a lot faster.

“How so?” he asked.

“Winner of each hole gets to give a hand-job to the loser”, I smiled.

“My kind of bet!” he grinned.

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Some hours later I and what was left of my friend walked off the golf course. Or rather I walked off. John hobbled, whining at every step.

“How far is it to the station for God's sake?”

“There is a cab outside to take us there”, I said with a smile. “Hurry up or we might miss our train.”

He glared at me.

“You never said you were a champion golfer!” he said accusingly.

“I am not”, I said. “But Father did let me have some lessons one time, so a little of it may have stuck.”

“A little?” he moaned. “You won every damn hole!”

“Not quite”, I smiled.

He looked at me in confusion.

“There is one more hole I am looking forward to 'putting' into all the way back to London!” I chuckled.

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I had to help him up into the carriage. But because I was a good friend I let him sleep all the way back to London.

Most of the way.

A lot of the way.

All right, Mr. Lannister may have slipped me a Stetson as we were leaving, and I saw no good reason to waste a perfectly good hat. Ride 'em cowboy!

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	8. Interlude: Plugged In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Some people are just considerate and get if not the full nine yards then at least over nine inches!

_[Narration by Mr. Bronn Blackwater, Esquire]_

It had, I admit, been a bit unnerving having Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson here. Not just because Jaime was so near to going over the edge – I knew that I could always hold him in check – but.... look, they were two attractive men and I.... was not.

I was barely through the door when Jaime was onto me. I had indeed underestimated his time; he was in a full heat _now._

“You tear all my clothes off and you're paying for them, _my liege”_ , I snorted as I quickly undressed. He was always annoyed when I referred to his 'noble' background but in this case he needed the distraction, especially as even half-undressed he took longer than me to get naked. I positioned myself on the bed and smirked at him between my raised legs.

“Well, _my liege?”_ I snarked. “Going to keep me waiting?”

It was almost pitiful the way that he almost fell over his not-quite-discarded underwear as he staggered across the room and grabbed my ankles. Then he looked down and I seriously thought that he was going to have a fit.

“You.... all the time they were here you... you had a plug in?” he gasped.

“Knew you were close”, I grinned as he eased the plug out. “Get a move on, kitten. Some of us have gardening to holy fuck right there!”

He pushed straight in, screaming his joy to the world. Thank the Lord that we were so cut off from so-called civilization and he could spend the next twelve hours working his edge off on me. Because I was obliging like that and ye Gods was he getting even bigger?

Aye, he was!

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	9. Case 249: The H.M.S. Implacable Incident ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. When a young man suffers a suspicious incident on board one of Her Majesty's ships, it is unfortunate. When said young man is not only a relation of a German prince but also second cousin twice removed to a certain Queen-Empress – it is high time to call in Mr. Sherlock Holmes!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It had been a good day so far. I had left one utterly broken English city doctor in our bedroom, complaining for some reason that being given a hand-job from sleeping was _not_ the way that he had asked to be woken – it had certainly 'felt' all right – and then after a delicious breakfast of bacon and John's bacon, getting a visit from a Randall who was clearly some way into panic mode.

I might be inclined to help him. If the mood took me. Possibly.

“I assume that there is an important reason that you have braved the early autumn fog”, I said wryly. “From the state of your expensive coat, you stood outside for some time waiting.”

He scowled at my omniscience. Some time back he had tried to come early thinking that Mrs. Malone was away, only to find Miss Thackeray waiting at the door to her aunt's room and wielding her favourite pair of pocket pistols. He had not tried it again since, which I supposed was proof that even the stupidest men can get the message. Eventually.

“Deep trouble!” he sighed. “Prince Albert!”

I was surprised.

“Has he risen from the grave?” I asked. “If so, I am sure that once he has been dusted off Her Majesty will be most delighted.”

“Not that Prince Albert, Sher.... lock”, he said, only narrowly saving himself from being ejected from the room via the window. “His and the Queen's second cousin twice removed, Prince Albert of Württemberg. He was over here on a goodwill visit but someone beat him up while he was returning to his ship, and his guardian is furious!”

I stared at him suspiciously.

“There is something that you are not telling me”, I said. “I do not know why; I always find you out sooner rather than later. Where did this international incident take place?”

“Portsmouth, at the naval base”, he said.

_(I should mention here that this explains a slight confusion which one of John's readers spotted in one edition of his stories, when he mentioned that he had been to Portsmouth on two cases. The first was of course the Smith-Mortimer Inheritance some three years back, which had taken place near the village of Portsmouth on the Lancashire-Yorkshire border, and most people assumed that the second was the affair of the cutter Alicia last year during which we had to visit the naval base in Portsmouth, Hampshire. However one particularly astute reader had spotted that John had referred to the cases as being three years apart, not two; that was because this was the second case and was actually centred around the famous Hampshire dockyard._

_How John keeps it all together when he writes I do not know. Especially as I devote so much time to taking him apart!)_

Randall glowered at me, clearly guessing the Very Happy Thoughts which had distracted me. I smiled, knowing that that would annoy him even more.

“What was the incident, exactly?” I asked.

“His guardian, a right little Kaiser Bill called Herr Mueller, claims that the fellow was beaten up by a group of town ruffians”, he said. “He is demanding a full-scale police investigation or he will cause an international incident, which with Anglo-German relations they way they are just now is the last thing we need.”

“Why was a German prince on an English warship in the first place?” I asked. “I know that we want to try to keep good relations, but that seems going a little far.”

He smirked knowingly.

“Württemberg is one of the three kingdoms in the German Empire”, he said, “and small as they may be, they are not overly fond of being told what to do by those bossy Prussians in Berlin. Good relations with them might make their masters more wary about taking us on if they feared that they might get stabbed in the back. So when Prince Albert said he wanted to see what life was like on a British warship, of course we said yes.”

I stared at him suspiciously.

“What?” I pressed. “I know that you pulled some trick, Randall.”

“'H.M.S. Implacable' is one of three old wooden warships from the Battle of Trafalgar at the start of the century”, he said. “A captured French ship taken into our fleet; she is a training vessel now. We kept our word; he is on a British ship. His guardian threw a fit when he saw the old vessel but apparently the prince was all right with it.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“You said that this was a royal prince”, I said. “What chance does he have of ever inheriting his kingdom?”

“Virtually nil”, Randall said. “He is way too far down the pecking order. In fact he had said that he so enjoys the sea life that he may stay here and get naturalized. His guardian threw a fit over that as well, but the boy is a favourite of our Queen because of his name so it may happen.”

“Does he still want to stay here after his beating?” I asked.

“I have not asked him”, he said.

“John and I will investigate this matter for you, Randall”, I said. “We shall go down to Portsmouth some time later today – _once John can walk again!”_

He glared at me for that. Good.

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John was, I knew, a deeply patriotic Englishman, but the Alicia affair had shaken that patriotism. The Royal Navy was the cornerstone of our Nation's strength but the cover-up after one of their captains had driven their newest and fastest vessel through a small cutter and then left three men to drown had left a bitter taste in both our mouths, although some degree of justice had eventually been effected (as it turned out, more would soon follow and not that far from Portsmouth as it happened). So as we rode down to the dockyards he was more silent than usual.

Well, except for the occasional manly exclamation of surprise when the carriage jolted him. Even first-class seating can only do so much!

My love had been able to fill me in with some more background information which was useful. The 'Implacable' had originally been the 'Duguay-Trouin', a French warship that had escaped the Battle of Trafalgar only to be captured the following month. She was not of course as famous as Nelson's flagship 'Victory' which sat resplendent in the docks as we arrived, but she was an important part of our Nation's past and it was right and proper that she be preserved. He also explained that Prince Albert's kingdom counted as rather different Germans (southern rather than northern) to the Prussians, and that possibly in the event of a future war a nation might be created out of it, Bavaria and Baden. Politics!

Our two German friends made very different impressions on us. Herr Claude Mueller was about forty years of age; balding, corpulent and openly suspicious of us from the start. He made it clear (twice) that only his charge's regard for John's writings had led to his accepting our presence. His overbearing attitude was I could see grating on the boy – the young man; he was I knew twenty-one although he looked younger, being painfully thin and small – and eventually he asked his watch-dog to leave us for a while. I was not the least bit surprised.

“Thank you for coming all this way, gentlemen”, the young prince smiled. His English was flawless with not a trace of a German accent. “I hoped that I would have the pleasure of your company.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“I am not a betting man”, I said, “but I would wager a guinea that if I were to ask the doctor here to examine you, he would swiftly come to the conclusion that all those bruises on your body are fakes.”

The young man tutted at me.

“How very dreadful of you Mr. Holmes”, he said, “to doubt the word of royalty.”

“Royalty has often got to be royalty by being prepared to use methods that might most charitably be described as insalubrious”, I said. “Or less charitably as barefaced lying. Why did you wish for us to be here, sir?”

The prince sighed.

“I find myself in a difficult situation”, he said, “one made more so by the increasing tensions between our countries largely caused, as we all know, by that Prussian madman in Berlin. I was hoping that you might take a letter from me to my cousin the Queen here, requesting that she approach the Kaiser to allow me to become a naturalized British citizen.”

“Why can you not do it yourself?” John asked suspiciously.

“Because the watch-dog you saw me dismiss earlier is monitoring all my communications”, the young man said. “He suspects that something is afoot although as of yet he knows not what. I think that the Kaiser would accept a request from his grandmother – his sole redeeming factor if that he adores her – but even she cannot go on forever. I need help _now.”_

“Why?” I asked, although I had already part-guessed the answer.

“You are slightly wrong about the bruises”, he said. “Some of them are real. One day about two weeks back I slipped away from my watch-dog for a night in the town. I wanted to sample all its delights and I did – very much so.”

“I went to a molly-house where they had pictures of the gentlemen available. I recognized one of them; Adam, the fellow whose father is in charge of the stores on this vessel. I know that you will say it is only one night but he was the first man I have ever met who actually understood the real me. Not the veneer that I present to most people, just me.”

“Although he is a couple of weeks younger than me he looks older, as all that hauling sacks and boxes has given him a wonderfully impressive figure. When I was leaving the place I was set upon by a gang of roughs, but luckily Adam came running after me – I had left some identification behind which may well have been disastrous – and he soon dealt with them. We talked it through and realized that making an incident of the whole thing might lead to the government asking for you. Unfortunately they sent your brother first, and I had to tell Adam that he could not throw him overboard!”

“Pity!” John muttered. I would have reproved him, but I could not because I had been thinking exactly the same thing. By his slight smile he knew that full well, the rogue! 

“I am sure that I can get a letter to the Queen your cousin”, I said, glaring at my friend. “Although I doubt that as you call him your watch-dog will be overly happy at your decision.”

“I can but hope that he storms off back to Berlin in a huff”, the prince said. “Thank you, sir. I am sure that it raises eyebrows that a minor German prince is content to shift boxes and sacks for the rest of his life, but that will soon pass.”

“Very true”, Sherlock said. “People's memories are short, thankfully.”

“Adam's father is actually responsible for several ships”, the young man said, “and he plans to retire a few years from now. Adam is the only one of his sons interested in carrying on, although that will be annoying as for security reasons I would not be allowed on any other vessel. But he has his own rooms in town and for all that they say princes should live in palaces, I find his small rooms much more to my taste. I thank you both, gentlemen.”

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Sherlock duly delivered the prince's note to the Queen, and very soon his request was granted. Herr Mueller immediately decamped to Germany in high dudgeon; I doubt that anyone in England missed him. Prince Albert of Württemberg became plain Mr. Albert Worton, and when the Great War did finally break out some seventeen years later no-one even remembered that the fellow who kept house for one of the dockyard's leading stewards had once been a German. Which considering the difficulties faced by some naturalized people from his country at the time, up to and including our own Royal Family, was quite something.

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_† Author's Note: Prince Albert is fictional but, sadly, H.M.S. Implacable was not. She survived for nearly one hundred and fifty years after her capture following Trafalgar, but she was deliberately scuttled by the post-war Labour government of Clement Atlee who claimed that the country could not afford the £200,000 repair costs (£7 million or $9 million at 2020 prices). That argument, unlike the Implacable, might have held water had at the same time the government not wasted some seven times that amount on a failed attempt to grow ground nuts in East Africa, which they were warned several times to abandon but chose not to. The same government had also had destroyed another ship built in the year of Trafalgar, 'H.M.S. Wellesley' which had been sunk in a German air-raid in 1940. It was refloated in 1948 and immediately broken up. Vandals!_

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	10. Case 250: The Adventure Of The Truthful Politician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Someone finds out the hard way that speaking the truth without speaking the whole truth can have some unfortunate – and very expensive – consequences.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I have mentioned before that my wonderful John sometimes had what he always called Another Wasted Evening With Stuffed Suits When I Would Much Rather Be Home Manfully Embracing The Man That I Love, and I called a fund-raising dinner for his surgery. I would sometimes go with him on these but I happened to know that Lady Catherine Fugglestone was hosting this particular one and I had no wish to be anywhere near that terrible woman. Not for nothing did the ruder society magazines (which of course John did not keep in the second drawer of his bedside cabinet) call her 'Lady Foghorn'; she seemed to think that all around her were as hard of hearing as she herself was. But I did promise him a large bar of chocolate when he got back that evening.

Yes, among other things. He would deserve it after that sort of torture.

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Unhappily all my plans for a wonderful night ending with the man I love were scotched when, barely half an hour after John had left I received a telegram from Mother saying that Father had had a fall and could I come over with John? Although I was sure that he would have jumped at the opportunity to escape an evening of certain ear-ache, I knew how important these people were to keeping the surgery afloat and instead wired his friend Sir Peter Greenwood, who very generously sent straight back to say that he would meet me at my parents' home.

Much as I had rather expected my father's condition proved rather less than life-threatening and, also as I had expected, had been another of his ruses to avoid having to hear yet another of Mother's dreadful stories ('The Flintstones'; it involved the building of Stonehenge and I _so_ did not want to ask!). Sir Peter kindly attended with great care and was his usual reassuring self, although when Mother later invited him to one of her Readings I definitely caught a look of sheer unbridled terror on his face). After a difficult evening we each made our way home and I looked forward to soon being in John's arms as I knew that he had to be back from his own ordeal by now.

Except that when I came into our rooms he was sitting quietly in his dressing-gown, looking far sadder than someone so beautiful should ever have looked.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“I would rather not talk about it tonight, if that is all right”, he said. “Just.... people being people. Can we just.... hold each other?”

I resolved there and then that whichever 'people' had been so much 'people' as to upset the love of my life would surely pay for it, and then some. But for now I quickly undressed and got into bed with him, pulling his larger frame around mine. He was not crying but I could sense a deep unhappiness in him. What on earth had happened?

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Thankfully John was not needed by the surgery or for any of his few remaining clients the next day, which as it happened was All Hallows Eve. He was however still deeply sad about something and we ate our breakfasts in silence. Once we were done he led me to the couch and we lay down together, my taller frame again holding his.

“Sir Isaac Boughton was at the ball yesterday evening.”

I frowned. I knew a little of that gentleman, a member of parliament and the sort of philanthropist who only feels he is doing philanthropy well if he spends hours telling every one just how philanthropic he really is (barely at all). A most unpleasant fellow all told; why the voters of his Fitzrovia constituency kept re-electing him to parliament the Good Lord alone knew. Unless it was just to be rid of him!

“He had promised to fund the hospital that is being built for our brave veterans”, John said, “and last night he made a big overblown speech about it all. He was all very apologetic about it but apparently the company doing the building had gone bust and it looked like he would not be able to get anyone else in to take over.”

“That is bad”, I said sympathetically. “Perhaps I can help?”

He looked at me sorrowfully. Clearly there was more to this.

“Then I met Mr. Charles.” Seeing my confusion he quickly added, “the son of a patient of mine.”

“Oh”, I said. “What was he doing there?”

“Hired wait staff”. he explained. “He told me that later, when some of the gentlemen retired to the smoking-room, Mr. Boughton boasted to his 'friends' that the builders were actually one of his companies and he had set it up so they could pretend to have taken his money and ran!”

I frowned.

“That is wrong on so many levels”, I said. “People like him should be taught a lesson.”

“What can be done?” John sighed. “Like you said about him and others like him, they never tell an actual lie so can never be accused of lying. I am sure that there must be no paper trail, and if there were allegations he would either deny it or come out with more half-truths. You know how the newspapers always tend to believe those with the most money.”

I thought for a moment.

“So he always tells the truth?” I asked.

“As little as he can get away with, but yes”, John said. “Why?”

I smiled evilly.

“Then perhaps the truth will be what gets him in the end!”

He looked at me in surprise but I would say no more. No matter how much he cudd... held me in a manly embrace.

“You were thinking that word again!” he grumbled as he pulled me closer.

I smiled but said nothing.

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Although it was both a holiday and the Sabbath I was sure that I could still count on the offices of our friend Miss St. Leger. I was quite correct, especially when I told her of the reason for my call.

 _”Him!”_ she said in disgust. “I have dealt with all sorts of low-life in this job but he is right down there with that lounge-lizard of a brother of yours when it comes to people that I want to slap very hard. He proposed a bill on limited voting rights for women last year but there we so many ifs, buts and maybes that it was all but worthless. Yet he still got one of his almost equally unpleasant friends to talk it out!”

“He has upset John”, I said, “which makes this a deeply personal matter as far as I am concerned. He is very fond of being known as a man who always tells the truth, so let us see what happens when his own sophistry is turned against him. Now this is what I have in mind....”

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After thanking Miss St. Leger for her time I girded my loins and returned to my parents' house. As it was the Sabbath that meant that Mother would be holding another of her Readings and I needed her assistance in persuading Father to step in and rescue John's hospital project, even if it meant enduring Mother's literary effort from earlier in the year, which I had thus far avoided. I mean 'The A-Team'; the Trojan War being settled by fifty of the handsomest men on each side doing.... that? What was my mother on?

Then again, fifty versions of John as a Greek warrior. _What a way to go!_

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Monday had looked set to be a quiet day, and I sorted out our breakfasts while John read the 'Times'. I had seen the article on the bottom of the front page earlier so I knew from the sudden gasp when he had spotted it. He put the paper down and looked across at me incredulously.

“Your father has stepped in and purchased all rights to the veterans' hospital”, he said, his voice awestruck, “and has pledged to have it completed for next summer.”

“Our brave men deserve the best”, I said off-handedly. “Now they shall have it.”

He looked at me in such wonder that I felt my heart was fit to burst. Then he forked over all four bacon rashers onto my plate.

“Who needs bacon when I have the perfect man in my life?” he smiled.

Never mind sex, it might be possible to make a man die merely though too much happiness!

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All right, I would take the sex as well. And once the bacon was safely dealt with, I did! Twice!

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As I have mentioned before, my parents had secured me the top-level membership at several of London's gentlemen's clubs, something I had accepted only because it enabled John to claim associate membership on his cards and thus placate his snobbier customers who _obviously_ could not have allowed their lives to be saved by someone without at least three club memberships! I myself rarely visited them but felt constrained to call in on each at least once a year if only to keep up appearances. Benfield's was one of the Mayfair ones that I did call in on a little more often, always with John as they served the most delicious double chocolate cream trifle and he always pouted most adorably when I teased him over his predictable dessert choices. 

Today however I had another reason for calling, although of course I still took John. And he still ordered that trifle.

I loved that man so much!

We were waiting for our desserts to come when I saw him stiffen.

“What is it?” I asked (although I knew full well what it was).

He nodded to where a rotund gentleman in an expensive suit had entered the restaurant with three others, talking far too loudly for such an establishment. The _maître d'_ looked visibly annoyed but of course did not challenge the loudmouth.

“That is Sir Isaac Boughton, the villain!” he said in a low voice. “I did not know that he was a member here.”

“The hospital fellow”, I said. “Would you wish to leave?”

He looked piteously at me. It was perhaps rather cruel of me to have suggested removing John from the vicinity of approaching chocolate.

“After dessert, of course”, I corrected. “We would not want to shun the cook's efforts.”

He was visibly relieved, then scowled again as the baronet passed by to sit at a nearby table.

“I do not know which one of them did it”, the fellow grumbled, “but by God I shall find out. One of them must have gone to the newspapers over this!”

“I bet they will all stick together”, one of his companions said. “Servants are a clannish lot, Isaac.”

“The devil is that the 'Times' is lauding me to the skies over it”, Sir Isaac grumbled. “I promised the staff a big bonus, true, but I thought half of one per cent of one quarter's salary† was more than enough for Christmas!”

For some reason the word 'Ebenezer' flashed across my mind. I had no idea why.

“What went wrong again?” another of his companions asked.

“Instead of half a per cent my bloody steward went and bloody well paid them fifty!” Sir Isaac snapped. “It has cost me a fortune, I tell you. When I challenged him on it he showed me the note I had written, and someone had dropped a grease-stain over the first nought. No idea how it happened but that was one damn expensive bit of grease, and I cannot take the money back or the Thunderer will crucify me!”

John just about managed to hold in a snigger. There was a lot of coughing, though. To answer yor question, yes; I allowed him to celebrate with a second helping.

And my helping as well.

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Sir Isaac Boughton's local church, St. Michael & All Angels, was in the process of fund-raising for repairs to their roof. I had promised John that to celebrate the success of his hospital project we would have a whole week of meals at Benfield's, although I said that even though they now provided a chocolate option daily I strongly doubted he would want it every day of the week.

_He had looked at me as if I was quite mad!_

It was Tuesday (All Souls Day) and after our dinner at the club we had retired to the library where several members including Sir Isaac were reading the newspapers. The afternoon editions had just arrived and I managed to intercept the boy bringing them and grab one for myself. I smirked when I saw the prominent headline on page two.

Sure enough, not five minutes later one of the gentlemen sitting opposite the baronet reached that point in the paper.

“Damn generous of you, Isaac”, he said.

The baronet looked across at him in surprise.

“What?” he asked.

“Giving an expensive painting to the local church”, the other gentleman said. “I dare say they will be able to build an extension on the back of that, let alone patch up the damn roof.”

The baronet frowned.

“I doubt it”, he said loftily. “I did promise that idiot Kettlebrook that I would donate a work of art, but he will not be able to do much with a mere Constable school.”

“Constable school?” the other gentleman asked, clearly puzzled. “It says here that you gave them your Rubens.”

_”What!”_

Everyone looked up at the sudden noise.

“'The Reverend James Kettlebrook thanks the bounteous munificence of his parishioner Sir Isaac Boughton, whose donation of his most expensive art treasure will enable the full completion of repairs to the lovely Wren-designed church of St. Michael & All Angels....”

Sir Isaac was already gone. John was looking at me suspiciously.

“Buckle up”, I smiled. “It is going to be a bumpy ride – _for some baronets!”_

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It would have been cruel of me to enjoy the fact that at Benfield's next day a certain baronet actually trembled as he opened the afternoon edition of the Thunderer. He had absolutely nothing to fear – from _that_ newspaper. The evening edition on the other hand would be another matter. 

He would know about it soon enough judging from the young fellow in his late twenties who had just entered and had asked for him.

“Who is that?” John whispered to me.

“Isaiah, Sir Isaac's second son”, I whispered back. “He recently married a lowly shopworker, very much against his father's wishes.”

John looked at me in surprise but further conversation was curtailed when the baronet saw who was approaching him.

“Isa?” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to come and say thank you, Father”, the young fellow said. He was absolutely nothing like his father; a shock of untidy blond hair and a pair of curious light-green eyes gave him a pleasing appearance unlike his bloated parent. “You said that you would help May and I over our house, but we never thought you would go that far!”

The baronet looked puzzled.

“That far?” he said questioningly. “I instructed my bank to pay off five per cent of your mortgage and frankly that was far too generous of me. If Sophia had not been so damn insistent I would have settled for just one per cent.”

Now the young fellow looked puzzled.

“Five per cent?” he asked. “But they paid the whole thing off, Father!”

_”What!”_

“There was a journalist from the 'Times' at May's work this morning so she told him all about it”, Mr. Boughton said. “It may have made the afternoon papers but if not I am sure that it will be in the evening ones. Thank you so much, Father!”

The boy strode off leaving his father spluttering behind him. John looked at me suspiciously.

“When he checks up on that”, he said carefully, “I would wager that the bank will somehow have a letter signed by him instructing them to pay off the whole mortgage.”

“I would hazard that that is _fairly_ likely”, I smiled. “Once again it is good that the baronet is a man of his word. Also that his benevolence is all over the newspapers – _or will be by this evening!”_

He began to smile – and that was wonderful!

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Thursday the fourth of November. Sir Isaac was not at his club as he was entertaining guests at his Mayfair home. I suggested to John that perhaps that meant we too should skip going, and earned myself such a delicious pout that I very nearly threw him onto the couch and had my way with him. 

All right, a little more than very nearly. But we still made it in time for luncheon so John got his chocolate, which was what was important. Also I did not smirk at his discomfiture when he sat down, although I may have smiled ever so slightly.

We did not adjourn to the library afterwards as I told him I was expecting something to happen at the baronet's Mayfair home and that we would need to start for there now. We decided to walk as it was not far (although someone complained that their still-aching backside made it feel a lot further!) and soon we were in one of the superior tree-lined squares not far from a lurid bright yellow property. John winced at the sight.

“His wife Lady Sophia's choice”, I said. 

“I would want to wear sun-glasses!” he muttered. “It is almost as bad as Mr. Harley Quinton's monstrosity.”

I smiled as we approached. We had timed it well; the baronet and his wife emerged from their house and came down the steps to the street below. She was a large lady and clearly someone who had what they call Presence. John looked at me inquiringly.

“He sent their carriage in for repairs last week”, I explained. “She is fond of being seen out and about, so its absence has been an annoyance for her,”

I watched as a large carriage turned in at one corner of the square then turned my attentions onto the baronet. I knew the exact moment when he realized what I had done to him this time.

“Oh Isaac!” the Amazon boomed (they could likely have heard her at Hyde Park Corner!). “You bought me a brand-new carriage!”

Her husband spluttered inelegantly as the atrocity came to a halt next to them. It really was the most garish creation imaginable, with small flags and coats of arms bedecking its gold-rimmed doors. Lady Boughton however clearly loved it and I did not rate her husband's chances of getting it away from her one jot.

“That must have cost him a fortune!” John muttered.

“It did”, I said. “But he did promise her 'the best', and 'the best' is what she got. If not quite what he – _and his wallet_ – expected!”

“You are becoming quite evil in your later years”, he smiled. “I shall have to punish you if this sort of thing goes on for too much longer.”

I batted my eyelashes at him.

“Promise?”

He laughed at me.

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Fond as I was of this game, it was time to bring it to an end and to make sure that Sir Isaac Boughton had learned his lesson. Once again his own words were to be what would secure his downfall. There is a lot of truth in that old saying about being hoist by one's own petard.

_(On a related note we had made good use of the four-poster bed and leather straps last night, and I had been the one getting hoisted while John had his way with me. That someone so beautiful, so wonderful and so mine could so easily come out with the words 'I love you' as he once more took me to heaven and beyond were more than I truly deserved, but I would work to earn that privilege)._

It was Guy Fawkes's Night, and John and I were back at Benfield's where we had dined a little way across from a visibly nervous Sir Isaac Boughton. It had been a most expensive week for him, and it was now threatening to become a humiliating one as well. I had already seen to that.

When the baronet stood to leave we approached him (thankfully John had finished that third helping of trifle, his two and my one).

“Good afternoon, Sir Isaac”, I said politely. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor John Watson. I was wondering if you might spare us a few moments of your precious time?”

He looked at us both suspiciously.

“What do you want?” he demanded rudely.

“I think that you would rather we have this conversation in one of this estimable establishment's private rooms”, I said. “Especially as it concerns one Miss Rivers.”

He went so pale that I thought he might need John's professional services – which he would probably if grudgingly have got – and led us away to a small room not far away. Once we were all sat down he stared at us expectantly.

“Well?” he said, although I could see that he was nervous.

“This relates to a speech that you made in parliament some time back”, I said. “Concerning the removal of what are rather curiously termed 'ladies of the night' from the _environs_ of the Houses of Parliament.”

“I did”, he said shortly. “So?”

I hesitated.

“A policeman friend of mine was involved in one such move to deal with these.... ladies last night”, I said carefully. “Among those taken in for questioning was Miss Edwina Rivers.”

“What is your point, Mr. Holmes?”

He was a decent enough bluffer. But he was playing with a poor hand, and unfortunately for him I knew that.

“Miss Rivers has made a certain allegation concerning an acquaintance of hers”, I said. “A member of parliament and someone that she has known for some six years now. During that time there has been a child.”

The baronet had gone pale.

“She has a letter from you, sir, accepting your paternity of the boy even though he has since sadly passed”, I said. “Since she would not be in her... profession without having acquired a certain understanding of human nature, she has obtained certain items from your person that only someone who had been, shall we say, _intimate_ with you could possibly have secured.”

“What do you want?” Sir Isaac demanded. “Is it not bad enough that my life has totally gone to pot this week without this on top of everything?”

I stared at him and waited. Despite his unpleasant nature he was no fool. He got there eventually.

 _”You?”_ he said incredulously. I nodded.

“In your nefarious and sophistic dealings you crossed someone that I care for very much”, I said firmly. “Now listen to me, my lord, because I have dealt with the criminal classes long enough to know your sort. You think that by using weasel words you can slide out of promises and yet still look the philanthropist. I sincerely hope that this week has taught you otherwise.”

He shuddered but nodded fitfully.

“You will cease such behaviour as of this minute”, I said. “Otherwise two things will befall you, and neither of them will be pleasant. First, your run of what you think is 'bad luck' will not just continue but will actually worsen. Second – the folder concerning Miss Rivers will be handed to your wife!”

“She would kill me!” the baronet said, horrified.

“I suppose that would be one way out of your problems”, I said. “Coincidentally your first test will be in only a few hours, so we shall soon see.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, worriedly.

“The fireworks display that you promised your staff for this evening”, I smiled. “I rather think that one small box of fireworks might perchance be less than adequate. Now if _that_ happens....”

He was already rushing from of the room.

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It was Saturday, the day after the fireworks the night before (outside and in!). I was sat eating breakfast and not at all smirking at the wreck of a man slouched in the chair opposite me.

“Stop with the smirking!” John grumbled. “As for that damn shop-keeper, tell him that I shall be having Words!”

I allowed myself a snigger. To mark this annual event I had obtained a special jar of unguent from our local 'special shop'. We had tried various spicy concoctions to even further improve our couplings, and one particular one had even made John miss a day at work as he had had to stay in bed face down while, as he out it, 'the fire in my poor innards dies down'. But this 'Jumping Jack Flash' had been something else; an unguent with small metal particles which, when heated by being applied to a human cock, emitted a small electrical charge. No wonder it had come with an extra-large gag which users were advised to use 'for their own and their neighbours' sanity'.

I made a mental note to direct Benji to said item. My cousin Luke had been a tad too prideful again of late, and he had told me that he was worried that he would soon be fifty. A combination of the Banjax and the new concoction, and that might not be a problem for him!

“You do not think that we should try that one again?” I asked innocently as he stared piteously at the covered breakfast plates. I reached over and lifted off the heavy lids, and he looked at me gratefully although it clearly hurt him even to lift his cutlery.

“Only for special occasions”, he said. “I do not know how you can just sit there like that after what we both went through.”

“Because I have nothing on below my waist”, I said casually.

Cue the quivering lip, made even more delicious this fine autumn morning as there was no earthly way he was capable of more than giving me a dirty look despite knowing what was just a few yards away from him. Hah!

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Reader, I had underestimated the man!

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_Notes:_   
_† Maids in Late Victorian times were paid about £25 per year, so Sir Isaac's 'generosity' would have extended to about £7 or $9 at 2020 prices. Instead he ended up paying them an extra month and a half's salary!_

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	11. Case 251: The Adventure Of The Retired Colourman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897-1898. Great Britain suddenly finds itself facing the possibility of a confrontation with its new ally France, so the theft of a letter from a London house seems small beer in comparison. But appearances can be deceptive....

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was one of those strange coincidences that our adventure concerning the theft of the Devil’s Foot, which had begun its life several millennia before in the land of the Pharaohs, was followed not long after by two more cases that involved that same part of the world where I had once spent three years away from Sherlock. 

Three years! Even if the bastard still stole most of my bacon every morning, I could not imagine being without him for three hours now!

Ever since the disastrous Siege of Khartoum during my time in the region, which had ended in the murder of General Gordon (partly through the incompetence of the Gladstone government as they had dithered for far too long over a rescue mission), there had been a _de facto_ independent Sudanese state run by religious maniacs, which had seriously damaged British prestige as well as encouraging those hawks in Paris who saw a chance to 'block off' British expansion south from Egypt as well as threaten that region's water supply. Despite the fact that the situation had begun to look better as I was returning to England eleven years back, continuing incompetence from governments of all persuasions had prevented we British from taking full advantage of the rebels' weaknesses. But now it seemed that at last things were moving in the right direction – which was of course when they suddenly turned and accelerated rapidly towards the nearest cliff-edge!

This case began with the announcement that Mr. Kit Rockland, our recent arrival from the United States, was engaged to be married to Miss Josephine Thackeray. The news came as a shock to me but not (of course) to the wiseacre who rocked my world on a nightly basis. I had thought that the two young people could not stand each other as they were arguing more often than not, but it seemed that I had been mistaken. This happened in December of 'Ninety-Seven and plans were begun for a wedding the following spring. And it was those plans which albeit indirectly brought us our next case.

Neither Mr. Rockland nor Miss Thackeray were at all religious but our landlady made it clear that a church wedding was _not_ negotiable as long as her future nephew required the continued use of various appendages. That and Mr. Malone's pointed cleaning of his own gun at the table seemed to have decided matters. The nearby church of St. Cyprian’s was the chosen venue and its vicar, an amiable cleric called Reverend Hadrian Montague, became a regular fixture at Baker Street that winter. One day just before Christmas he brought a guest with him, a Miss Florence Mallilee, and asked if we would meet with her. We agreed and she was shown up to our rooms.

Miss Mallilee was one of those ladies for whom the term ‘sprightly’ may have been invented. She was about fifty-five years of age, neatly-dressed and looked nervous at being in the famous fireside chair but there was an air of determination about her. I was just thinking to myself that thankfully Sherlock was getting too old for women to simper at nowadays when she did just that and immediately lost at least ten points in my regard as a result. Apparently some things never changed.

_That bloody annoying smirk included!_

“The dear Reverend urged me to tell you gentlemen all”, she said in a quiet voice. “But there is so little to tell. It just seems… odd.”

“The doctor and I undertake many investigations that fit just that description”, Sherlock smiled. “We consider almost any case, madam. Pray tell us what is troubling you.”

Thus prompted the lady folded her hands in her lap and began.

“Every Sunday after Morning Service the Church Association holds a small luncheon for some of the retired gentlemen and ladies living in the area”, she began. “It is normally quite restricted as we only allow fourteen members at any one time, but recently a most polite elderly gentleman moved to the area – well, just over the border in Paddington – and he was recommended to our little group. His name is Mr. Aumary de Montfort and he is a former colourman, having just retired from a company that was working for the British Army out in Egypt.”

_(A word of explanation is probably needed here not least because both uses of this word are now rare. A colourman was originally anyone who sold paint, but in the Army it then had a wider meaning of a supplier of anything brightly coloured such as uniforms)._

“Currently a rather interesting part of the world”, Sherlock observed. I could see that he, like me, was thinking of our time apart the previous decade when I had been in Egypt and.... things had happened.

“Do you happen to know exactly what Mr. de Montfort was doing in that part of the world?” I inquired, eager to cease dwelling on ghosts of the past.

Our visitor looked at me in horror.

 _“That_ is gentlemen’s business”, she said, colouring slightly. “A lady would _never_ ask!”

I lowered my eyes at the reproof. Sherlock merely smiled, the bastard.

“Something has happened with this gentleman?” he pressed gently. She blushed.

“It is really not my place”, she said. “I am only someone who serves him tea at the weekend, you see. But when he first came to us he was so much happier. I think that he was glad to be back home in dear old England; he did say that he had a comfortable pension and everything. But then there was the shooting.”

“Shooting?” I asked, surprised. She nodded.

“A gun that he was firing went off unexpectedly and he had to have his arm put in a cast”, she said. “The police looked at it afterwards and said that the mechanism was faulty.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“You do not believe that it was an accident?” he asked.

“I suppose that it was if the police said it was”, she said dubiously. “But the affair seems to have saddened him for some reason, and he is not what he was.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“There is something else that you have not told us”, he said. “It is not just the change in manner that has worried you; that can happen to people for a whole variety of reasons. What else has happened, madam?”

I wondered for a minute if she was going to deny it – Sherlock had a way of seeing through people and few enjoyed the experience – but she folded almost immediately.

“A foreign gentleman came to the vicarage asking questions about Mr. de Montfort around the same time”, she said. “Definitely French; my niece is learning the language at school for some inexplicable reason. I was arranging flowers for the church at the time and overheard him.”

“What did he look like?” Sherlock asked. 

“Tall and thin”, she said. “I think he had something wrong with his leg because he walked with a limp. He only spoke to the vicar, not to me personally, and I think that he may have been carrying a gun.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“It was a rare warm day”, she said, “yet he was wrapped up in a heavy and very loose-fitting coat. And he kept his hands in his pockets. I did not like him one little bit!”

I smiled at her mild xenophobia.

“As I am sure you are well aware”, Sherlock said, “many cases that we investigate turn out to be something and nothing. The doctor does not publish those because for some strange reason people do not like to be bored when they read our adventures. It may be that this matter has a simple explanation; however it intrigues me and I am inclined to look into it. If you leave us your address Miss Mallilee, we shall endeavour to keep you informed of our progress.”

“Thank you, sir”, she said.

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Christmas that year was wonderful as Stevie and his family came down to London. Sherlock arranged for them to put up at his brother Guilford's latest hotel, Claridge’s (I suppose that I should clarify one thing in that the frequency with which the massively inferior Holmes changed jobs was due to his organizational and cooking skills being so much in demand), and I got to see my family – my _other_ family – every day. 

I had also finished my work on the Norwood case from just over two years ago which would be published in the 'Strand' magazine in the New Year and all seemed right with the world. Plus I even got to kiss Sherlock under the mistletoe. Because I am a gentleman I shall not state precisely _where_ he was holding the mistletoe at the time. Use your imagina.... yes, there!

Sherlock and I had decided on a rather unusual choice of present to each other that festive season. We proposed to Mrs. Malone that we would fund the extension of our bathroom which backed onto a little-used cupboard and which would enable a separate shower unit to be fitted. Sherlock was of course still far the richer of the two of us but my recent literary successes meant that now I could fully afford my half, and he did not press for him to pay more. The only slight annoyance was that building could not be started until spring at the earliest but I looked forward to using the larger room even if it meant a few weeks of temporary discomfort. 

“I shall miss the old tub”, I said one day as the two of us were soaking in it together, Sherlock between my legs as my cock nuzzled against his backside. 

“The new one is larger”, he said. “We shall be able to stretch out more, and relax more easily.”

I was feeling relaxed right now. We had just got back from seeing off Stevie, Hetty and the boys at King's Cross, and I felt supremely happy. Especially with Sherlock grinding himself against my rapidly hardening cock.

“You are asking for it!” I muttered kissing the back of his neck. 

“Are you sure that you are up to it?” he asked. “I mean, in a few weeks' time you will be full forty-six years old. Not quite ancient but older people do have less energy, I know.”

I growled and stopped his teasing by easing him up and onto my rapidly hardening cock. He growled back at me then surprised me by sinking straight down onto me in one swift movement. I gave him a love-bite for that but then I rather lost focus as he quite literally dragged the orgasm out of me, like I was some sort of dildo with a human appendage on the other end. Had I not been several stages beyond nirvana I might well have objected. 

I _might_ have!

“It seems that you can still perform to par, John”, he teased, leaning his head back and kissing me languidly before his hand joined mine in jerking him off to orgasm as well. Then he sank back into me, a blissed-out lump which I gently washed down with the flannel.

“I can go all night if necessary!” I boasted.

“Really?” he whispered, his voice unnaturally loud in the silent steam of the bathroom. “Let us test that hypothesis.”

And the horny bastard woke me up every hour on the hour to demand sex. It was a sorry state the following day and it did not help my mood that after the regulation four coffees he was as bright and cheerful as always. But though I was totally shattered and sitting down was an action to only be undertaken with great caution along with a soft cushion or three, I loved that man. 

_Even if he was trying to kill me through sex!_

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In the celebration of the festive season and my brother's visit I had almost forgotten about Miss Mallilee and her retired colourman. However the case was brought back to my attention with a start in the New Year when I read an article in the 'Times' one January morning.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “Listen to this!”

He looked up from his book.

“’A break-in has occurred at 'Scarab End', the London home of one Mr. Aumary de Montfort not long arrived to the Paddington area from Egypt’”, I read. “’Fortunately a passing policeman, Constable Tulloch, spotted that the front door was ajar and came to investigate, causing the thieves to flee through the back garden. Mr. de Montfort informs us that nothing has apparently been taken and investigations are ongoing.’”

“It seems that Miss Mallilee was correct”, Sherlock said. “Are you free to visit the scene of the crime today, John? I know that you have one call to make?”

“I am just checking in on young Mrs. Tresham”, I said. “Her morning sickness is lasting a little longer than is usual which is worrisome as it has not been bad before. But she actually lives in Paddington. We could go to see Mr. de Montfort afterwards if that is acceptable?”

“Indeed”, he smiled. 

We were interrupted by a knock at the door and Mrs. Malone entered. She looked distinctly annoyed and I immediately feared the worst. Sure enough Mr. Randall Holmes was behind her. I groaned inwardly; the villain had reluctantly been admitted back into our lives a couple of months before when he had needed Sherlock's advice on a case involving a government minister in a financial scandal. He still clearly disapproved of our relationship and there was something of a wary truce between us all. Plus Sherlock would still not let me order those wonderful man-traps!

_Yet._

“Him!” Mrs. Malone snapped, glaring at the visitor before brushing past him and leaving.

“I am not exactly feeling the love here, Sherlock”, our visitor said testily (if he annoyed Mrs. Malone much more he would certainly be feeling something, a bullet in his posterior with any luck!). “I cannot stay long. That idiot Lord Peebles is on the verge of causing a minor crisis in the Lords and the government needs me.”

“Do not let us keep you then”, I said testily. Sherlock gave me a look of only mild reproof. 

“What do you want, Randall?” he asked coolly.

“You are holding a case for a Miss Florence Mallilee”, he said, “in regard to Mr. Aumary de Montfort.”

I was not even surprised that he knew about it.

“What of it?” Sherlock asked.

“It would be advisable for you to drop it”, his brother said.

“Not unless you give me a reason why”, Sherlock said.

“She is not even paying you!” Mr. Randall Holmes said scornfully. “Let it go, Sherlock. This case goes deeper than even you are used to dealing with.”

Sherlock stared at him pointedly.

“If that was your only reason”, he said stiffly, “you will have to do better.”

“Fine!” his brother snapped. “Do not say that you were not warned. I shall see myself out.”

He strode to the door and was gone. I stared after him feeling decidedly uneasy.

“John”, my friend said slowly, “if you feel uncomfortable about this…”

“Like hell am I letting you face this alone, whatever it is!” I snorted. “I am getting my bag – and my gun!”

He smiled. He looked so nice when he smiled and I could almost....

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We made it out of the house after barely an hour. 

Ish?

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I did not know what to expect when we arrived at Scarab End but the house in front of me was not it. I stared in astonishment.

“That”, I said firmly, “is _not_ the property of a retired colourman! Not unless he is also a secret millionaire!”

Although Paddington was a mostly middle-class residential area around the Great Western Railway's terminus it did possess a small number of secluded areas and Scarab End lay in one of them. A quiet little cul-de-sac leading away from another little-used road, it consisted of only half a dozen houses the last and largest of which lay before us. The house itself was a fairly standard family-sized affair but the grounds were impressive to say the least.

We presented our cards and were shown up to the study of Mr. Aumary de Montfort. He was a fine elderly gentleman and I noted the number of military-themed portraits around the room as we sat down with him. His chairs were however uncommonly hard.

“I hope that you will pardon the intrusion”, Sherlock began smiling at me for some reason, “but we are here about the break-in last night.”

The old soldier raised an eyebrow at us.

“I was not aware that consulting detectives concerned themselves with such trivial matters as household burglaries”, he observed. 

“In light of where you have returned from of late, sir”, my friend said, “it may not be such a trivial matter.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This is a secluded area”, Sherlock said, “and it seems rather coincidental that it was your house that was targeted. My concern is that the thieves may try again.”

“They will find little of value here”, the man scoffed. “I am more than proficient with a weapon, even with my left hand.”

“That would be from your nephew?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise. The old man smiled.

“Your reputation does not do you injustice”, he said. “Yes, Peter taught me.” He looked across at me. “Sir Peter de Montfort, commanding officer of the Second Dorsetshires currently stationed in Egypt, doctor.”

“Ah”, I said. “The military connection.”

“I have a controlling interest in the military supplies company Blackstone's which is why I am able to afford a place like this, as I am sure you were wondering”, he smiled. “Peter kindly engaged my company to do some work in Egypt before I retired.”

“I believe that someone thinks you may have information about future events in that part of the world”, Sherlock said. 

“My nephew did send me a letter and he mentioned what he had planned”, the man admitted. “Naturally I have locked it away somewhere safe. I did tell Sergeant Whitefeather about it, though.”

I groaned inwardly. It was just my luck that that obnoxious personage was involved in the case. 

“May we be allowed to see that letter?” Sherlock asked.

I thought that the colourman hesitated slightly but he nodded and crossed to a writing desk, unlocked a draw with his key and extracted a single sheet of paper. Sherlock read it and a slow smile creased his features.

“I see”, he said handing it back. “It does indeed seem that we have no further business here at present. But take care, sir. We are dealing with governments here and as I am sure you well know, they can make most criminal organizations looked positively scrupulous!”

“I will take care”, soldier man smiled.

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“What was in the letter?” I asked. “Anything of note?”

“His nephew talked of plans to secure western Egypt along the borders with the Ottoman Empire's Cyrenaica province”, he said. “There is a large and mostly empty disputed area there over six hundred miles between Benghazi and Alexandria, but securing the latter would strengthen the British presence in the approaches to the Canal in case relations with Constantinople suddenly worsened.”

“Rather indiscreet of him”, I observed. “Letters can be easily intercepted. Besides, I thought that we were propping up the Ottoman Empire?”

“Remember that the family is descended from the same stock that gave us the great Earl Simon”, my friend said. “We should not underestimate them. Though I appreciate the irony.”

“What irony?” I asked, confused.

“As you once told me, the original de Montforts were French yet Earl Simon ended up becoming quintessentially English”, he smiled. “History does so love to repeat itself!”

_(Several readers observed to me that in our later cases Sherlock seemed much more interested in the sort of historical information that he had once regarded as mere mental clutter. In fact one of his favourite activities was for me to tell him things about our Nation's long and illustrious heritage while he made every attempt to distract me. Horizontally, vertically and all angles in between!)._

We returned to Baker Street, the case seemingly having come to a halt. A few days passed and nothing much happened except for a sharp snowfall and equally sharp thaw that caused some local flooding, until one morning our breakfast was interrupted by two guests neither of whom was the least bit welcome. Mr. Randall Holmes and Sergeant Whitefeather. 

I _really_ needed Sherlock to let me order those man-traps!

“This is a disaster, Sherlock!” the lounge-lizard stormed, pacing up and down the room. “It is all your fault.”

“How is that?” I demanded before Sherlock could speak. His brother scowled at me.

“You must have been seen going to that damn house, and they took the letter. The French know everything, damnation!

“Randall!”

Sherlock did not shout but the anger in his voice caused his brother to freeze mid-step. My friend gestured to the chair and the look on his face scared even me. Mr. Randall Holmes sat down but was still frowning.

“That idiot de Montfort!” he said. “A police officer came to his house yesterday and asked for another copy of the letter as they had lost the one he had given them after the break-in. He said that his bosses wanted to have an expert examine the wording. The fool wrote one out for him – except the policeman was a fake! Clearly a French agent!”

“Then clearly someone knew about the letter”, Sherlock said patiently. “Did Mr. de Montfort tell anybody else about it?”

“No”, his brother scowled. “You and the doctor were the only other ones who knew.”

He risked a look across at me but stopped when Sherlock coughed warningly. I blinked; I had not even seen my friend lay his hand on that gun.

“As well as the sergeant here”, I pointed out. “Plus the constables he took with him to the house.”

“I only took Penfold”, the sergeant snapped. “He's as loyal as the day is long.”

“The fake officer even had a letter signed by Whitefeather here”, Mr. Randall Holmes moaned, “which he left with Mr. de Montfort as a receipt, so he must at least know someone who works at the station. That letter or at least the contents of it must surely be in Paris by now.”

“Then you should be away dealing with the resultant political fallout”, Sherlock said mildly. “One can hardly blame Mr. de Montfort for believing an English policeman, especially when backed with a letter signed by a sergeant. Unless the sergeant here can remember signing something without checking it?”

The sergeant looked set to deny this but suddenly went red.

“Sergeant?” the lounge-lizard said sharply.

“Constable Grubb, Penfold's friend”, he said dully. “He... asked me to sign a form just as I was leaving for a meeting yesterday morning. He's not in today. He, uh, he's sick.”

 _But not as sick as you look now_ , I thought with maybe just a scintilla of pleasure. 

“Perhaps a visit to Mr. Gorbals's house might be in order”, Sherlock said with a nod in my direction. “I am expecting an important client today so I am afraid that I cannot help. Good day, gentlemen.”

Our two visitors hurried out. 

“So they got the letter after all”, I said. “Constable Grubb is a traitor to his country.”

Sherlock smiled then stood up and went to his writing-desk and jotted down something on a piece of paper. He then went to the door, opened it and I heard him speaking to Miss Thackeray, then he gave the note to her before returning to the table.

“Who is the client you are expecting?” I asked. “A new one?”

“No”, he said. “But I expect them here this morning. I hope you can tear yourself away from over-dramatizing our latest adventures for the populace.”

I scowled at him but I knew that he was only teasing. At least, I was fairly sure that I knew. If not, then there might well be Pouting!

“I love it when you pout, John!”

Damnation!

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It was barely an hour later that the expected client showed up. I was surprised to find that it was none other than Miss Florence Mallilee.

“Greetings, madam”, Sherlock said as he showed her to the fireside chair. “I hope that I have not incommoded you by my hasty summons?”

She looked somewhat nervous, I thought. 

“Not at all, sir”, she said. “You did say that you would keep me informed as to any developments in the matter of dear Mr. de Montfort.”

“Indeed I did”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I can say that there have most definitely been developments.” 

He paused.

“In my line of work, I sometimes have to deal with that cruellest, heartless and most vindictive of organizations, the national government”, he began. “This case seemingly began when you informed me of the recent arrival to your area of Mr. Aumary de Montfort, a retired colourman over whom you had some concerns.”

She nodded.

“More properly”, Sherlock went on, “the case truly begins some months earlier. Anyone who can read a newspaper knows that the British Army is currently securing the lower or more northerly part of the Sudan, north of where the two branches of the great River Nile meet at Khartoum. After several embarrassing setbacks, that campaign finally seems to be moving towards a successful conclusion that will solidify the British grip on Egypt, doubtless much to the annoyance of the French government.”

“However the area further south along the White Nile is as yet unsecured, and it also happens to lie on the east-west axis between the French Kongo and French Somaliland. If the French could establish themselves there it would not only cut off British interests in north and south Africa from each other, but it might even allow them to threaten the water supply to British Egypt. As the saying goes, today's ally can all too easily become tomorrow's or even this afternoon's enemy. So the French would be more than a little interested to know precisely where the armies currently finishing off the Mahdists are planning to go next.”

“I do not 'do' politics, sir”, our guest smiled. 

Sherlock shook his head at her.

“Oh I rather think you do, Miss Mallilee”, he said, sounding almost playful. “That great tome 'Who's Who', as ever up to date in such things, already informs its readers that the commanding officer of the Second Dorsetshires is Sir Peter de Montfort, and that his uncle is retired and now living in Paddington. It would be a reasonable assumption that Sir Peter might write to his uncle, and a hope for any French government agent that he might be indiscreet enough to pass on information as to where his unit is going next.”

“I do hope that you are not accusing a British Army officer of treachery”, she said hotly.

“I merely said they might _hope_ for such a thing”, Sherlock pointed out. “I did not say that the hope would be justified. As it happened it was not.”

“But we saw the letter”, I protested. “Or at least you did.”

“Yes, the letter”, Sherlock smiled. “A very interesting letter. In that part of the world the paper is very rough, you know. Paper like that can easily trap fibres from the clothes of the person writing on it.”

He stared at our guest meaningfully. She coloured.

“I do not get it”, I said, confused. 

“Sir Peter never wrote a letter to his uncle, or at least nothing about his future plans for his unit”, Sherlock said. “The man is a commanding officer, not a fool. However, he did scheme with his brother to lay a trap for the French. There have been rumours – never proven but likely true – that our 'allies' were providing covert help to the Mahdist rebels, and doubtless Sir Peter saw an excellent way to divert French efforts elsewhere.”

“You may remember the Heligoland case, doctor, and the subsequent exchange of that island to Germany in return for lands in East Africa. The latter would be the natural target for any British advance, sealing off French Somaliland from the French Kongo. The French know that we have more men than they do in the area – but if they can be made to believe that the bulk of our men are to be withdrawn in an effort to strengthen Egypt's western borders many hundreds of miles away then they might risk a dash across Africa to unite their territories and 'block us off'.”

“They want a conflict?” I asked, shocked.

“They want a _confrontation”_ , Sherlock corrected. “With so many British forces seemingly in the distant northern deserts the French will be expecting that their men will come up against only a small British force, and we would be forced to back down.”

It still seemed terribly risky to me. But then I supposed that that was politics.

“Mr. Aumary de Montfort brought home several sheets of army paper and planned to write a fake letter which would lead the French astray if they ever got hold of it”, Sherlock said. “It could not be done immediately as it would only 'look real' if it referenced the date of a recent British victory over the Mahdists. I am not a betting man but I would wager that this whole thing has the backing of the War Office. Naturally they would not tell anyone elsewhere in the government which was why poor Randall was having a panic attack earlier. Which I suppose some would say was a bad thing.”

“However the shooting incident led to Mr. de Montfort being unable to write properly so he obtained the services of a certain lady in a green dress, two fibres of which became caught in the poor-quality paper. A lady who, she claims does not 'do' politics but knew full well that bringing us in onto the investigation would ensure that it ended satisfactorily.”

I looked at Miss Mallilee in admiration.

“Dear Aumary asked me to write the letter for him, and told me everything”, our visitor said stoutly. “I would do it all again for the Nation!”

I had no doubt that she would.

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Postscriptum: It should be added that as Sherlock had predicted two French armies were already _en route_ to meet in the southern Sudan at the small village of Fashoda, although only one would make it. That move would spark a diplomatic incident which would also include our next case and prove once more – as if we needed further proof – that governments of any hue could never be trusted.

And it would lead to more than one death.

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	12. Case 252: The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. A deadly war claims two men's lives. Not a war between nations but one between government departments in which Sherlock has to secure justice for the innocent victims - and justice against for their killer!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was typical perhaps that one case involving the machinations of governments followed on so soon from another, let alone our recent glut of Egyptian-themed cases. This one, however, involved deaths – plural.

Heavy snows that January had brought most of London to a standstill which Sherlock in particular rejoiced in as he did not have to go and see his family (I had pointed out that he could still have walked to the family home and got the sort of betrayed look that he usually reserved for those days when he wanted all my bacon of a morning). I should probably have taken the time to write but there was something uniquely wonderful about sitting by a blazing fire holding a hot (in both senses) man in my arms, both of us wrapped in a blanket and just enjoying the silence. In between all this being busy doing nothing, I managed to at least make a start on 'The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans'. 

One page _was_ a start! 

The major event of that cold winter of 'Ninety-Eight was the unexpected if not astonishing betrothal of Mr. Randall Holmes, whose relationship with Sherlock remained 'difficult' (I can actually _hear_ him quirking an eyebrow at that). The 'lucky' lady – never have I felt more the need for those quotation marks! – was one Mrs. Muriel Bannerman, who had had an affair with him some eight years ago from which a son had resulted. She had considered him unsuitable for a father (so clearly she had had good sense back then at least) and had found instead a rich businessman Mr. Mark Bannerman who had married her and adopted her son Bevill as his own. However said husband had recently died while in Africa on business and she had decided (and I shall always remember the straight face that Sherlock kept when he told me this) that her former lover was 'better than nothing, just about'. That the marriage would take place at such short notice was also a little surprising but I supposed that the prospective Mrs. Randall Holmes did not wish to give her future husband time to change his mind. Or to make a run for it!

Mrs. Bannerman had called on us before the wedding and apologized for not inviting us, but her family up in Cambridge had a passionate hatred of all and anyone even remotely associated with the law after a bad and costly experience with the local constabulary had contrived to make even worse, and she did not want her elderly grandfather who was not expected to last the year out to be upset by any argument that she could guarantee that her cousins would start. I supposed that she had a point about difficult families – Sherlock more than most knew that! – but to be fair she did arrange for slices of the wedding-cake to be sent to us afterwards, which was considerate of her (especially as it was chocolate!). I might add that she was an extremely forceful lady and I may have smiled just a little to think of her keeping a certain lounge-lizard In His Place.

Sherlock just looked at me. All right, I smiled a lot! _But so did he!_

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It was a surprisingly warm late January morning when I stumbled out of the bedroom to find, unusually, Sherlock up and fully caffeinated. It had been a stormy night and the weather had seemed to drive my beloved to even greater feats of endurance than usual as he had come inside me three times before falling onto me and straight asleep. I had held him all night thinking to myself how lucky I was. 

I picked up the unusually heavy 'Times' and was immediately struck by the single word emblazoned across its front page.

“’Fashoda!’” I read. Sherlock looked up at me.

“Pardon?” 

“You were right”, I said, reading the first paragraph. “The French have tried to seize a Nile crossing at some place called Fashoda and General Kitchener has caught them there.”

At the start of the month British forces had finally won that long-sought decisive victory (the Battle of Atbara) over the forces of the Mahdi, the latest in a line of insane religious leaders who for some reason the natives down there followed. Less than fifty British dead for over ten thousand of the enemy with thousands more captured, a truly decisive blow. The rebels would likely regroup under yet another equally insane leader but their position was now untenable. 

However, as Sherlock had foretold in our previous case the French had indeed tried to take advantage of British preoccupation by seizing the upper (i.e. southern) Sudan for themselves. A small force of barely a hundred men had raised the tricolour over the small town of Fashoda and I silently thanked God for a sensible general like Kitchener (and presumably his French counterpart) for holding off. For now. 

“There is of course the possibility that the French may stand their ground”, Sherlock said. “There are as I said many in Paris who resent their informal alliance with us, and that they turned down our invitation to share in the governance of Egypt back in 'Eighty-Two. Berlin must be delighted at this.”

I could not but agree little knowing how the desert stand-off that people in our most recent case had helped cause was to have repercussions for ourselves in the very near future.

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Berlin may have been (and almost certainly was) delighted with the discord between London and Paris but the soon to be married Mr. Randall Holmes most definitely was not. I had thought his unwelcome arrival in Baker Street was merely to grouse about his extra workload but it turned out that he wanted Sherlock’s help on a case. I noted with some amusement he looked tired and wondered if the future Mrs. Holmes was responsible. Their honeymoon in the United States had been delayed until later in the year, presumably in the hope of better weather for the long crossing.

_(I should add that I had learned one other thing about the soon-to-be Mrs. Randall Holmes which had perhaps made me smile ever so slightly. Sherlock's mother had been delighted at the unexpected acquisition of another grandson in Bevill and the two ladies had found that they were both writers of fiction. The thought of them exchanging stories and the lounge-lizard being forced to listen to them all was.... moderately amusing!)._

At the start of the month”, our unwelcome visitor said, “the destroyer 'H.M.S. Ardent' left the port of Alexandria. It had on board two Coptic patriarchs, Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis, and it made port at Plymouth a week later. It had been arranged that a member of the government would greet the men and escort them to London for talks but he missed them, and they set off for London on their own.”

“Why were they coming to London?” Sherlock asked.

 _“That_ is classified information”, his brother said crisply. 

Sherlock pointed across the room. “And _that_ wooden object is a door. Shut it behind you when you leave, quietly as Mrs. Malone purchased new bullets for her pistol earlier this week!”

His brother scowled but was quickly resigned to his fate. I did not bother to hide my smirk.

“All right”, our visitor grumbled. “The current Egyptian government is making things difficult for the Coptic Church to the point where there is talk of an insurrection. There is probably nothing in it, but bearing in mind the situation at a certain riverside trading post just now the British Army is badly overstretched. We cannot afford trouble in Egypt while our backs are turned.”

“I take it that something has befallen these men?” Sherlock asked. 

“As in they have both been shot dead!” his brother said grimly. “So when their colleagues back in Pharaoh Land find out, there will be hell to pay!”

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“Of course the two priests were safe on board one of Her Majesty’s ships”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “But it does not take a genius to know that few ships travelled from Egypt back to here last month and someone could easily have had agents at Plymouth, ready and waiting.”

“The French?” I ventured.

“Who else?” our guest said morosely, slumping into the fireside chair. “Probably out of the country by now, on a fast yacht.”

“What exactly happened?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the strange part”, his brother said. “The ship's officers escorted the priests as arranged to North Road, the Great Western station in the town, where they got put on the express to London. Unfortunately their guides did not wait to see it leave. After they had gone, the priests must have got off and taken a cab to the Friary terminus of the London & South Western Railway. Lord alone knows why!”

I was immediately suspicious, as I could see was Sherlock. Why had the guides taken their charges all the way to the railway station but then not waited a few extra minutes to see them safely off? 

“That seems bizarre”, I said. “They they were in a strange country after all.”

“True”, our guest agreed. “I checked, but there were no accidents or delays on the Great Western that would have entailed a change of plan. The conductor entered their compartment just before Okehampton and found both men dead, each shot with a single bullet to the heart.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Did the train make any stops before they were found?” he asked. 

Our visitor shook his head.

“Okehampton was the train's first stop”, he said, “although it had slowed to a walking pace at Lydford where they crossed onto South Western tracks officially. Someone waiting could have boarded the train there; it always pauses at that point. The line up to there is owned by another company, the Plymouth, Devonport & South Western Junction. Really a front for the London & South Western.”

Sherlock looked across at me.

“I shall need you on this case, John”, he said. “Are you able to go west with us?”

“Of course”, I smiled, feeling even more warmed by his brother's scowl. 

“Bring your medical bag”, my friend advised. “Also your gun. I have a feeling that you will need one or the other, quite possibly both.”

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The bodies of the two priests had been taken to Okehampton police-station so it was to that town that we directed ourselves. The recent sudden thaw had caused some disruption with flooding but our railway companies were used to such things and all was well as we sped westwards. It had of course proven impossible to detain everyone on an express train so Mr. Randall Holmes was probably right in that the culprits had got away. I did not see just what he expected Sherlock to be able to do or for that matter what my friend hoped that we could achieve, but I was determined to do my best by him. That was my job, after all.

Our reception at the police-station in the little moorland town was mixed, to say the least. Sergeant George Venables was an avid reader of my books and was clearly delighted at Sherlock’s involvement in the case. The same could not be said of Doctor Christopher Morris, the local doctor who had made the initial examination of the bodies before a police expert had arrived from London. He seemed annoyed that the sergeant had given permission for me to also look at the bodies and was clearly striving to hold his tongue. Before I went in Sherlock pulled me to one side.

“John”, he said in a low voice, “I do not want to prejudice your examination at all. But I wish you to pay particular attention to the _teeth_ of the two dead men, and tell me what you find.”

I did not see the relevance of that but nodded my agreement, then went inside and began my examination. Both men had been in their forties, Father Benedictus slightly older I thought. He was also the healthier of the two; both men were a little underweight and slightly shorter than the average height. I examined their mouths with great care but could not find anything unusual about their teeth, both sets being in a fair condition for men of their ages.

I had almost done when I spotted something that _was_ unusual, a small tattoo on Father Benedictus’s ankle. It seemed to be a word of some sort in the tiniest of writing and I could make out what seemed to be ‘kerenza’. I wrote the word down in my notebook and went back out to report my (general lack of) findings.

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“You found something”, Sherlock said as we walked down the High Street. His brother was in the post-office sending a telegram.

“I found nothing about the teeth”, I said. “I looked closely, but they were perfectly normal for what men of their age should have had.”

To my surprise that news seemed to depress my friend.

“I was afraid of that”, he said heavily. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes”, I said, taking out my notebook. “One of them had this word tattooed on his ankle. Very small writing; I almost missed it.”

His face darkened even more.

“It is as I suspected”, he said. “There is little more that we can do here. We should get to our train.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Very!” he said.

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“Well?” Mr. Randall Holmes said tartly as we sat down in our compartment and waited for the train to depart.

“I am not a performing dog to obey your every command”, Sherlock said just as tartly. “I have a question. You said that a fellow was sent down to meet them at Plymouth but missed them. How did that happen?”

“Just bad luck”, his brother sighed. “The fellow had a minor crisis at home – a burst water-pipe or some such – and missed the express. By the time he reached Exeter he knew that he could not make it, so he decided to wait there for the train that he knew they would be on.”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “Who was the man in question?”

“Mr. Henry Goodchild”, Mr. Randall Holmes said. “Dull as ditch-water but completely dependable.”

“Someone from your department?” I asked.

“Hell no!” Randall Holmes exclaimed forcibly. “I may officially be on the Foreign Office lists but _my_ great talents cannot be bound to just one department.”

 _Like your great ego_ , I thought not at all bitchily. Sherlock gave me another of those annoyingly timed looks (although there was also a definite nod in there) and pressed his fingers together in thought. 

“What is the most likely outcome from these two murders?” he asked. “Apart of course from instability in a region of the world where it is least needed.”

“The British government will probably look foolish when it comes out”, his brother admitted. “People will say that they should have protected these men, despite all the facts. The bastards over at the War Office will still be gloating about it at the end of the year if not the one after. I would say that they would be unbearable but they passed that some time ago.”

“Children all”, Sherlock sighed.

“Why?” I asked. 

“There are those in the War Office who want to take over the Foreign Office and make one super-department of state”, Sherlock explained. “The never-ending game of turf wars, except if the weakness of the British government means that the French do not back down at Fashoda, we may have real war as well. I presume that the War Office would welcome the chance to take down the French a peg or four while the Foreign Office is advising caution?”

“True”, his brother said glumly. “It was a waste of time dragging you both down here. I do not know why I thought that _you_ could help.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock said. “I can quite easily point you in the direction of the killers of those men, or at least the people who employed them.”

The train obligingly chose that moment to start and Sherlock’s brother nearly fell to the floor in surprise.

“How?” he demanded.

“When we get to Exeter”, Sherlock said, “the doctor and I are going to double back and head to Plymouth via the Great Western route.”

“But why?” his brother demanded. “Tell me!”

“Because whoever arranged this scheme will certainly have placed someone in Okehampton whose job it was to monitor our arrival and departure”, Sherlock said, “and I wish to create for them the pleasant little illusion that we are headed back to the Great Wen. In reality the doctor and I will hopefully spend the rest of today and tomorrow finishing the case for you.”

His brother scowled at him.

“You are not going to tell me, are you?” he sulked.

“Not just yet”, Sherlock said. “But I will give you a clue.”

“What?”

 _“Love_ is the answer!”

The scowl became a glare. I tried to suppress a chuckle but failed abysmally. And I did not care that I failed.

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I was surprised when we arrived at Plymouth Station that Sherlock insisted on checking into the luxurious Great Western Hotel there. However he insisted that he had his reasons.

“I am looking for one man in particular”, he said. “I have reason to suspect that he would only have stayed at the very best hotel in town.”

We were fortunate. Miss Gussett the receptionist at the hotel (sixty-five if she was a day and if you have to ask about the damn simpering!) melted under Sherlock's charm and was eager to help. He described a gentleman he was looking for who had travelled down from London and would probably have requested the best room they had. Yes there had been a gentleman who had arrived just over a week ago and was still in the hotel, due to leave the following morning. A Mr. Smith in the Brunel Suite. 

Sherlock thanked her profusely and we retired to our own rooms.

“Who is this 'Mr. Smith'?” I asked. “I assume that that is not his real name?”

“I would be very much surprised if it was”, he said. “Unfortunately he is likely to stay in his room right through to his departure – I am sure that he has already been alerted to my interest in the case – but we may have an opportunity to search it while he is at breakfast tomorrow morning, unless he orders to his room.”

“Search it for what?” I asked.

“For his real identity”, he said grimly. “If we are to procure any sort of justice we must have that before he leaves.”

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I awoke in a very comfortable bed to find six foot one of glorious angel wrapped around me. Yes, life was good.

Sherlock was rubbing himself against me in his sleep and I smiled down at those raven locks. Even when in slumber he still sought me out. I eased myself carefully down his body, nibbling at his neck before tracing a path down to first one nipple and then the other. He sighed happily but did not open his eyes.

All right, I would have to up my game. He was already half-hard and I gently rubbed him to full-mast then eased down even further and began to run my tongue up and down the underside of his cock. He writhed beneath me letting out little grunts of satisfaction but those impossibly blue eyes remained closed. 

Being a doctor sometimes had its advantages so I gently fingered him open and inserted one finger, while taking his cock-head into my mouth and humming, something I knew that he loved. It was hard concentrating on that and seeking out his prostate at one and the same time but if I twisted my finger just so......

He let out a startled cry and came without warning flooding my mouth with his come. He seemed to have momentarily lost control of his body for when he stopped shaking he swiftly pulled me up and began apologizing.

“My love”, I grinned, dabbing a spot of his own come onto his nose, “Seeing you like that – it' is so good that I can still do that to you!”

He smiled at me so lovingly that my heart almost broke, then pulled me into a kiss. Finally he fell back, sighing.

“I love you”, he said. “Today we are going to wrap this case up although we may need to be a little underhand in our methods.”

“I'm all for putting my hands under!” I quipped. He stared at me and shook his head reprovingly.

“Later, John!” he smiled. “Here is what I need you to do.....”

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Annoyingly Mr. Smith did indeed order breakfast to his room the following morning. Sherlock was still getting dressed after our morning capers so I went down to breakfast alone. I had barely ordered however when the fire alarm went off and like the other guests I had to hurry out to the front of the hotel. It was raining slightly and there was a general grumbling as we waited for the all clear. 

It turned out that some debris at the bottom of the lift shaft had caught alight, and it was soon dealt with, although the twenty minutes that we had to wait seemed a lot longer. Even though I was fully dressed unlike some of the guests I was glad to be back inside, to find that my friend had joined me at my table.

“All is well?” I asked in a low voice.

“Very”, he whispered back. “That was the only way to get 'Mr. Smith' out of his room.”

“So you know who he is?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I do”, he said. “This is one case when finding the guilty party is only half the battle. If we are to see justice done we shall have to play as dirty a game as our adversaries, something that I am loath to do but which must be done.”

I looked at him uneasily. He seemed unhappy at his findings and I wanted to reassure him. At that moment the waiter brought my breakfast and I pushed the coffee over to Sherlock.

“Here”, I said. “You need it more than I do. I will order another one. And yes, I did remember to ask for extra bacon.”

He smiled at me gratefully.

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Our journey back to Baker Street was mostly in silence; Sherlock did not expect the mysterious 'Mr. Smith' to return to town until later in the day. Once we were back in our rooms he immediately dispatched a telegram to someone but did not tell me who it was. I took my notebook and sat on the couch in order to begin writing up the notes from the day's events. To my surprise he came and sat down beside me then lay down so his head was resting against my leg, his legs draped over the couch's arm. I smiled down at him but he looked worried.

“Sometimes I hate this job!” he muttered. “I can empathize as to how some policemen go bad when they have to deal with the criminal classes all the time. All those bad apples; the infection just spreads.”

I lightly ruffled his long hair and he made a half-hearted attempt to swat at me. We stayed like that for some time until I heard the sound of the doorbell and soon after someone ascending the stairs.

“Our visitor approaches”, he said dryly making no effort to move from his position. That surprised me but I said nothing. He was comfortable there and in his present state of mind that was all that mattered. 

There was a knock at the door and he finally hoisted himself upright, although he also moved closer to me as if needing the contact.

“Enter”, he called out.

The fellow who entered our room looked distinctly ill-at-ease. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty, was sharp-faced and dressed in what were obviously quality clothes. 

“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?” he said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

“Be seated, Mr. Collington”, Sherlock said. “Our business will not detain you for long, I assure you.”

“I was not aware that we had any 'business'”, our visitor sniffed.

“Well, if you do not wish to talk to me there is always the Marquess of Lansdowne”, Sherlock said dryly. “I am sure that he would be _fascinated_ to hear what is going on in the lower reaches of the government department that he ostensibly leads. Also I am personally acquainted with the prime minister dear Lord Salisbury, for whom I sorted a rather important matter not so long ago. I do not think that either of them would take well to what you have done in their name. Especially when it reaches the London newspapers.....”

The man looked horrified.

“You would not dare!” he stormed. “In the current climate that would make you a traitor!”

“I take no lessons on morality from a man with blood on his hands!” Sherlock snapped back.

The two stared at each other for several moments before our visitor slumped in his chair.

“How much do you know?” he demanded.

“I know that you are in public the minister responsible for foreign intelligence”, Sherlock said crisply. “I also know that in reality you are the head of Department Two.”

“What on earth is Department Two?” I asked, not failing to note how pale our visitor had suddenly gone. 

“A government office dedicated to pursuing the goals of the British Empire and the War Office”, Sherlock said. “Not necessarily in that order, and regardless of trifling things such as morality and the law.”

“You do not understand government”, our visitor stated bluntly. “One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

That damn phrase again! I really should be taking Sherlock's advice and have it printed on my notepaper ready for when it was trotted out as an excuse for foul behaviour.

“I understand murder”, Sherlock said. “Double murder in this case. I understand what you did. I fully understand what you are going to do over the next few weeks, unless you want this whole sorry mess blown all over front pages across this scepter'd isle.”

The man scowled.

“There are some facts that I do not know about this case”, Sherlock said. “You will provide them and then I will tell you my demands. I am sure you believe that you have covered your tracks most thoroughly sir, but like you I can play a low game when needed. Deal fairly with me and you will continue as you have been. Try to cross me and I will destroy you. Then I will have you killed.”

He did not raise his voice at all but there was a tone of absolute conviction about his words. And our guest could see it.

“Say on”, he said, trembling slightly..

“The two priests?” Sherlock asked.

“Both on a dig in Georgia”, our guest said. 

“The names of the two men?”

“James Penruddock and William Kirrin.”

“What were they doing in Egypt?” Sherlock asked.

“They were both mining engineers”, Mr. Collington said. “Seconded for a year to work abroad on very generous rates.”

“Except that they are now both dead”, Sherlock said acidly. “You have a novel definition of the word 'generous', sir.”

“Who were these men?” I asked, bewildered.

“You knew them better as Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis”, Sherlock said. 

“What?” I exclaimed. He turned to me.

“This began like I said back in Devonshire as a turf war”, he said. “The War Office wanted a showdown with the French and had been hoping the current confrontation with them over Fashoda would escalate into interdepartmental warfare. Maybe even actual warfare.”

“But the French are our allies!” I protested.

“Old attitudes die hard”, Sherlock said grimly. “Remember, the Prussians were our allies for over a century before the balance of power abruptly changed across Europe, even in our own lifetimes. Many at the War Office hanker for the olden days; Waterloo, Trafalgar and all that. They view the Foreign Office as untrustworthy.....”

“They are!” our guest cut in. Sherlock looked at him and he subsided.

“So when they learned that their rivals had been entrusted with the safe conduct of two Coptic Patriarchs, they saw an excellent chance to cause them grief. Even if it involved the incidental murder of two innocent men.”

“The real priests are still very much alive”, our guest said defensively.

“Unlike Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin”, Sherlock shot back. “Very well. The real Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis are persuaded to decamp to Georgia on an anonymously-funded archaeological dig. Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin are told that for some reason they need to pass themselves off as these Coptic priests all the way to England. I would assume that a large sum of money is promised for their co-operation. Doubtless they are also told that they need only go as far as getting on the train at Plymouth and that once they reach Okehampton they can head home. Unfortunately for them it is imperative for the War Office that two dead bodies be laid at the feet of their political rivals. The men are shot most probably soon after leaving Plymouth, their assassin leaving the train at Lydford where the train always slows at the nominal change of railway company.”

I stared in shock.

“You are guessing”, our guest said sulkily. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Dores the name 'Mr. Paul Claybone' ring any bells?” he asked in a silky tone.

Our visitor's face turned even paler.

“It was typical of your operative that, since the British taxpayer was paying for it, he checked himself into Plymouth's best hotel for a week”, Sherlock said with an unpleasant smile. “I expect that he and his men were waiting at North Road Station ready to end the lives of those poor, innocent men. They also threatened the lives of the men accompanying them, and likely their families as well if they did not keep to the story of seeing them safely onto theie train. Doubtless the same department was also responsible for delaying the Foreign Office agent sent to escort them, although perhaps Mr. Goodchild might consider himself lucky given your apparent preference for dead men telling no tales.”

Our visitor remained silent.

“I took the measure of entering Mr. Claybone's room this morning during an _impromptu_ fire alarm at our hotel”, Sherlock said. “Very sloppy, sir. If you are pretending to be someone else, keeping your real identity in your wallet is highly inadvisable.”

“What do you want?” our guest asked snappily. “I thought that you and your friend here were all for Empire. You cannot go to the press.”

“Sir your department has murdered two innocent men!” Sherlock said angrily. “Two lives taken for the basest of reasons. International affairs frankly bore me; I can and I will expose you for what you are. However, if you undertake certain restorative measures then for the sake of the Empire I will desist.”

“Such as?”

“Who are the next of kin of the two men?” Sherlock asked.

“Penruddock was married with one son. Kirrin was single, living at home with his mother.”

Sherlock wrote some numbers on a piece of paper and passed it over to our guest who raised his eyebrows.

“An anonymous benefactor is going to give a large sum of money to the next of kin of both men”, Sherlock said. “My investigations have shown that, as is so often the case, Mr. Claybone committed his foul deeds first and only sought your sanction second. Because of that I am minded to spare your wretched life – _but only at the cost of his._ He will not live to see this evening's sunset, and if you are so foolish as to try to warn him then it is one hundred per cent certain that your own fate will also be quite unpleasant. As well as quite immediate.”

Our guest swallowed at the threat.

“Indeed”, he said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He left hurriedly. Sherlock sighed and slumped back to his former position. I ruffled his hair again and he leaned into me even further.

“Murder by the British government”, I said softly. “They are all at it!”

“We have so little proof”, he said. “I am sure that the two bodies have already been disposed of most likely at sea, and any investigation could easily be derailed. No, this is the best solution that I could have wrung out of this sorry mess. Though I still feel dirty.”

He sighed unhappily.

“What did you mean when you asked me to look at the men's teeth?” I asked hoping to distract him.

“Egyptian food is often laden with the desert sands”, he explained. “It wears down the local people's teeth more than usual.”

“But these men came from Egypt”, I objected.”

“Yes”, he said, “but there were working for the British Army who source their food supplies from elsewhere. Had they been real Coptic priests then their teeth would have been worn down.”

“Oh”, I said. “What about the mystery word 'kerenza'? It sounds almost Italian.”

He chuckled.

“That was what helped me to be certain”, he said. “'Kerenza' is a Cornish word for 'love' or 'beloved'. Not something a real Coptic Patriarch would likely have on his ankle.”

“Of course!” I said.

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Postscriptum: Although the British government did indeed arrange for the payment of sizeable sums to the next of kin of the two men who they had dispatched into the next world, Mr. Collington foolishly did try to warn Mr. Claybone of his approaching doom. The bodies of both men were dragged out of the Thames the morning after, and I know that Sherlock dispatched a large jar of sherbet lemons to the assassin Miss Rose Abercorn (Mr. Bow's grand-daughter who had taken her grandfather's place in the 'direct removal' business).

Mercifully in light of what was to follow the French backed away from Fashoda, saving the undeclared Anglo-French alliance. The British government handled matters surprisingly well (yes, for once!); there was a general realignment of borders and interests to the French advantage in Africa, and the town where they had suffered such humiliation was soon after renamed Kodok which name is still bears today (1936).

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	13. Case 253: The Adventure Of Maude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. Mr. Sherlock Holmes takes on arguably his greatest challenge yet – trying to stop a woman from doing something that she has set her mind on! A small case but ultimately one with painful consequences all round.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the many questions asked in the letters that poured into Baker Street each day concerning Sherlock's and my adventures together concerned various attempts to rank such by all sorts of different criteria. One of the more amusing ones, I thought, was a lady who had inquired as to which case I had considered his most challenging. I was sure that most people would have expected something from the dark Moriarty years, but this little adventure surely ranked right up there when it came to someone being hoist by their own petard. It was a trifling little matter all told, made more so by the dark events that followed partly as a result of it and which so nearly broke us apart once more.

The case began after two minor incidents concerning friends of ours. Sherlock had recently had to sort a minor matter for Mr. Lloyd Jackson-Giles, the young lover of Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson. Which reminded me; Lloyd's brother Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, despite being happily married with a large and growing family (thirteen children with number fourteen on the way, the dog!), still leered at Sherlock whenever he came round to be treated by me which seemed to happen far too often, although I supposed working as a security guard at a molly-house was that sort of job. If I did not know Sherlock better I would have thought that he was having the fellow round so often just to provoke me. Luckily he was better than that.

Back to Lloyd, an unassuming fellow who had grown to be the image of his prodigious elder brother. He had recently submitted a fiction story for some newspaper competition and much to his surprise had won. The newspaper had however been 'difficult' about paying out the prize, and Sherlock and I both had a strong suspicion that the skin colour of the winner was a factor particularly as he had had to have his picture taken as part of it all and his difficulties had only started after that. Some words in the right places made sure that said difficulties ended pretty damn quick, and my publishers Brett, Burke & Hardwicke were prevailed upon to commission some of Lloyd's work. An unpleasant example of bigotry dealt with – and another was to follow close on its heels.

I had remarked to Sherlock as he was telling me about this that we had not had that many visits from his pest of a brother Randall lately, and he had explained that the fellow was abroad for a week, frowning for some strange and inexplicable reason at my dancing round the room in celebration. He told me that the pest had sent him a telegram demanding that he investigate the recent assault on the unpopular government minister Lord Ashdown in a London alleyway, but Sherlock had found that his brother had (once again) left out certain important details, specifically that the 'nobleman' had a short time back chanced to encounter our friend Mr. Benjamin Hope from the Tankerville Club adventure on a Westminster pavement and had struck the latter for the egregious crime of a black man inconveniencing him by not stepping out into the roadway so his social better could pass. Several of Mr. Godfreyson's boys had 'inconvenienced' His Lordship rather more in an alleyway very soon after, which had ended with Lord Ashdown being tied to a lamp-post by his own trousers. And a local journalist with a camera being informed of same.

Oh dear how sad never mind.

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So to our current case and the annoying reappearance of said lounge-lizard to Downing Street. I was sure that if I asked Mrs. Malone nicely she would let me install a few man-traps on the stairs whatever Sherlock said; we were after all at the top of the house and... and someone was shaking his head at me again, damnation!

The over-scented annoyance sat down. Why Mrs. Bannerman wanted to marry this excrescence the Good Lord alone knew; there were four hundred million other men on the planet and most of them had the advantage of being human!

“Lord Salisbury is worried over that blasted Bunker again!” he snipped.

My readers will remember that we had come across the former Mr. Archibald Bunker only recently, when due to a most calamitous alignment of coincidences which surely had no connection to a nearby consulting detective (or at least none that could ever be proven) he had been made a baronet in error, and the joyous public reaction had rendered the government unable to retract the award (much as they had wanted to). Sir Archibald Bunker had continued to be about as subtle and understated as plain Mr. Archibald Bunker (i.e. on a scale of one to ten, about minus eight!) so all had been well. Although maybe not for the nuisance now present who complained about him every other visit. 

“A popular politician?” Sherlock smiled. “Dear dear. Little wonder that our esteemed prime minister is concerned. We cannot be having _that_ sort of thing, can we?”

Our unwelcome visitor scowled at him for that.

“It is not so much him as his wife's cousin over from the United States”, he said heavily. “A female version of him, yet impossibly she is even worse. Mrs. Maude Findlay.”

“What of her?” Sherlock asked laconically. I knew he was not as disinterested as he was making out but also that his apparent attitude was annoying his brother, which was all well and good.

“She is one of those terrible suffragists”, Mr. Randall Holmes sniffed, as if the unseen Mrs. Findlay was in truth a mass murderer or at least a slayer of helpless little kittens. “She is here for a whole year while her husband is on business.”

Sherlock looked sharply at his brother.

“I do not see a problem here”, he said warily. “Mrs. Findlay is entitled to her freedom of speech like anyone else. I cannot be having with this modern attitude some politicians have that people should not be able to say things because someone's precious feelings might get hurt. I do hope, brother, that you are not suggesting that I endeavour to persuade this lady to refrain from exercising her constitutional rights?”

“Women are perfectly entitled to do that provided they keep to the kitchen, and leave the running of matters to the professionals”, our visitor said loftily.

“Like the sort of 'professionals' who recently murdered two innocent Cornishmen to score a political point?” I not-snarked. 

Our visitor turned on me but my friend got in first.

“Randall!” Sherlock said sharply, “if your next sentence contains any variations on the words omelette, eggs and breaking, then be assured that the only thing to get 'broken' any time soon will be that large window over there as I jettison you through it and down to the street below!”

I should probably not have enjoyed seeing the lounge-lizard shake with fear at Sherlock's anger like that. Besides, every time he got like that there were some quite interesting Consequences for certain parts of my anatomy later.....

I pulled myself together with an effort, ignoring a blue-eyed someone's damnably annoying smirk.

“Fortunately the Bunker fellow loathes the dratted woman”, our visitor said. “He refers to her as 'Attila The Hen', which I suppose proves even he can be right sometimes. But the newspapers are bound to make hay of anything that she says or does because of her link to him.”

“You think that if I talked to her, she might change her approach?” Sherlock asked. “An interesting challenge. Well, I suppose that it is worth a try.”

I stared at him in astonishment, as did our unwelcome visitor. _He was actually going to help?_

“You _will_ speak to her?” Mr. Randall Holmes said uncertainly, clearly as taken aback as I was at Sherlock's reaction. 

“I will”, Sherlock said. “You had better go about your business, Randall, as I have someone important coming soon.”

Our visitor scowled at the put-down but made his exit. I waited until he had gone before asking.

“I did not know we were expecting anyone important”, I said.

“We are not”, he said shortly. I frowned.

“But you said....”

“I said that someone important will be coming soon”, he said, rising to his feet and giving me what what most definitely a Look. “I meant _you_ , John Watson. You will be coming very soon. Our room, you, naked, two minutes.”

Seriously, one of these days he was going to give me an aneurysm talking like that without warning. Either that or I would injure myself trying to get undressed while moving!

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A fairly fit medical gentleman in his early middle age should not have to endure having three successive orgasms pulled out of his wrecked body, I thought as Sherlock lowered himself down onto me again and tweaked my nipples in a way that, incredibly, had me growing hard once more. I stared unfocussedly up at him; I would have said something but that forming words thing was a bit beyond me at present.

“I love you so much. John”, he said as he rocked my world again. 

I just nodded at him. I tried a smile, but I was not sure it came out as one. He grinned and squeezed my cock, causing my body to judder as I tried to come on empty. It hurt but it was a glorious pain, of the sort that made me complete.

He prized himself off of me and stood next to the bed grinning.

“Fancy a nice long cab ride?” he smiled.

I would have scowled, but that would have taken far too many facial muscles. Instead I just passed out.

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I was in little better shape at breakfast the following morning, thanks largely to having gone from fast asleep to being jerked off first thing in the morning. And 'someone' really could do with toning down the smugness level! I lowered myself carefully onto my cushion and sighed happily.

“I thought that we might go and see Mrs. Findlay this afternoon”, Sherlock said, smiling as I slowly forked over two of my bacon rashers to him. Slowly, because even reaching across the table _hurt!_

“You are actually going to try to dissuade her from speaking out?” I asked dubiously. I considered Americans a generally decent lot but some of them, I often felt, did not seem to come with a volume button and I suspected that Mrs. Findlay would prove to be one such. And I still did not see why my friend was helping his annoying lounge-lizard of a brother.

“I will do exactly what Randall asked of me”, he grinned. “He said that I should go and talk to her. So talk to her I will.”

I stared at him uncertainly. What was he up to? Still, at least the journey was not until the afternoon so I should be able to sit down properly by then.

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I was indeed able to sit in the cab quite comfortably on our way over to Newhaven Street. Or at least it would have been quite comfortable had not 'someone' insisted on his wearing the red, white and blue 'Patriotic Panties' which the bastard had kept flashing at me throughout the day. Although he had promised to let me remove them from him once we got back to Baker Street.

_He really was trying to kill me through sex!_

“Randall will not be a happy bunny today”, he smiled as I gritted my teeth at his _insouciance_. “According to the 'Times', Mrs. Fawcett visited Mrs. Findlay last night, and they discussed various matters of women's rights.”

He was probably right about that, I thought. Mrs. Millicent Fawcett had the previous year set up a national organization to coordinate the various local women's suffrage groups, and was beginning to target some politicians on the matter to their very evident discomfort. There were very few in parliament who were prepared to speak out for women's rights but I suspected that that would change given time.

“Very comfortable, these are”, he muttered.

I myself might live to see women get the vote _unless I died of sheer frustration along the damn way!_

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Mrs. Maude Findlay was a dominant personality in every way. Tall, grey-haired and imperial, she made two of her inconsequential husband Walter who seemed very much an extra piece of baggage that she had decided to bring along. I could see exactly who wore the trousers in this marriage. 

Someone's not-smirk was annoying again!

The lady looked sharply at Sherlock. I had wondered if I should bring a stop-watch to see how long it was until the first simper. But from what I had read of her I knew that this lady was surely made of sterner stuff and she would not....

_Oh come on!_

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes”, she said somehow managing to look disapproving and to simper at him at one and the same time (impressive if frightening). “Are you here to tell me to button it?”

Her husband opened his mouth presumably to object to her frankness but she just looked at him and he froze. Even more impressive (and frightening).

“Far from it, madam”, Sherlock smiled. “My irksome brother Randall, who works for the government, asked that I approach you concerning your recent pronouncements on women's suffrage.”

“Hah!”, she exclaimed. “I _knew_ it!”

Sherlock shook his head at her.

“He did not however tell me to request that you _refrain_ from speaking your mind”, he smiled. “He merely said to _talk_ with you. For example, to ascertain if you really are intent on advancing the cause of women's suffrage.”

She looked sharply at him.

“I am sure that your government is as crooked as ours back home”, she said, “and that they are already having an attack of the vapours over Mrs. Fawcett calling here last night.”

“I happen to wish Mrs. Fawcett well in her endeavours to secure women the vote”, Sherlock said. “It is something that, like the fairer constituencies that we secured some thirteen years back, will happen whether the current crop of politicians wills it or no. Although it might be said that the sooner it does happen, the better.”

“Why do you say that?” she demanded.

“Politics is all about knowing which levers to pull and, equally importantly, which levers _not_ to pull”, he said. “Rather like a railway signal-box, especially in the way that one wrong move can lead to disaster total and irretrievable. I happen to know that Miss Fawcett believes the increasingly divided Liberal Party, currently in opposition, would be the best people to target.”

“She is surely correct in that”, Mrs. Findlay asserted. “Your Liberal Party are the reformers, as I understand it.”

“But a political party will only enact a promise once in power if it sees some benefit to itself”, Sherlock said. “Giving women the vote would be briefly popular to whichever party enacted it, but studies have shown that ladies tend as a whole to be more conservative than gentlemen. I am sure that whatever they may say in public, the Liberals know full well that any such move would make them suffer in the long run. They would find some reason to water down or even cancel any change.”

She hesitated long enough for another simper. I coughed. It was not a defensive growl, whatever anyone later claimed.

“What do you suggest then?” she asked.

“I would propose targetting your cousin's Conservatives and their Liberal Unionist allies”, I said. “I think that they will soon merge into one party anyway, and they have shifted suddenly before, as they did to remove the hated Corn Laws half a century back when that was clearly in the Nation's interests even if it nearly destroyed them. Any change in _their_ policies would place the Liberals in a very difficult position, with their opponents looking more liberal than they are, and they would be left with no choice but to soften or even stop their own opposition in order to avoid being outmanoeuvred.”

She thought on his words then nodded. I did not see any visible change in Sherlock yet I somehow knew that he was going to do something odd in some way.

“Perhaps Mrs. Fawcett may also consider pursuing the likes of my brother Randall”, he smiled. “People like him wield an undue amount of influence on governments of all hue, and short of the apocalyptic asteroid for which many of those who know him are praying to descend upon his coiffured head – or the man-traps that, ahem, _certain people_ would wish to place in his path – he will likely be there long after the next election which could be in as little as two years. Some even say that his ilk control their elected masters.”

“That is true”, she said. “As we say back home, when you have them by the balls their hearts and minds will surely follow. Thank you for calling, Mr. Holmes.”

And damn me if there was not another simper on the way out!

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“That really was awful of you”, I said in a tone of the mildest possible reproof as we waited for a cab outside Mrs. Findlay's house. “Although I felt a little sorry for poor Mr. Findlay, not being able to get a word in edgewise.”

“Indeed”, he said sonorously. “Still, it makes for marital harmony when each knows their place, does it not?”

I stared at him suspiciously. He grinned at me.

“We will be going by Trafalgar Square”, he said. “Would you like to stop for pie at that place you like so much?”

I was about to berate him for asking such a stupid question when I remembered. 

“That is mean, making me choose between chocolate cake and panties!” I hissed.

He just smirked at me.

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Fortunately he loved me enough to buy a whole chocolate cake to go, and once back at Baker Street I duly divested one cheeky teasing consulting detective of one pair of panties.

Not of his damn smirk, though!

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A week or so later we had a visitor to Baker Street. An unwelcome lounge-lizard of a visitor. Seemingly the apocalyptic asteroid had not arrived despite all my prayers, and Sherlock had very cruelly said no to the man-traps no matter how hard I fucked him. Life was unfair at times.

“I cannot believe it!” the nuisance fumed. “This damn woman and her cronies have started on the Conservatives and some of them have already said that they can see a political advantage in being seen to be more liberal than the Liberal Party! Lord Salisbury is furious!”

“A politician doing something because the common people wish it?” Sherlock smiled. “Tut tut again. Truly 'tis the End of Times. Again.”

His brother glared at him.

“To cap it all Peterson at work says that his wife is backing the cause”, he groused, “which means he has to support it or else he gets none. Even Muriel seems to back it for some daft reason. Honestly Sherlock, you have made things worse, not better!”

Sherlock just smiled at him. It took his brother rather too long to get it.

“You... you did not....”

“You told me to talk with Mrs. Findlay”, Sherlock said innocently. “So I did. Since you did not specify the _content_ of the conversation that you wished me to undertake, I therefore advised her on the best way to achieve her ends.”

“You... you....you....!”

He was clearly seething with rage. He stood, glared at us both and marched across to the door.

“You will pay for this!” he yelled as he exited in a rush of bad cologne.

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As it happened we both of us nearly did pay for it, very much so. But in the end it was the lounge-lizard who reaped the whirlwind.

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	14. Interlude: Booking It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. Sherlock's sort of nephew shares one thing with his 'uncle' John Watson, namely a strong suspicion that if things can go wrong then they will. He is cynical even for a teenager - and, unfortunately, also very right!

_[Narration by Master Tantalus Holmes]_

Although I am only fourteen years of age I have long come to the conclusion that the simplest explanation to things is usually the correct one. So I went into the shop and bought the book.

I had better go back a bit. I had seen that the breakdown of the marriage between my poor mother and Lady Holmes's eldest son – I can never think of Mr. Mycroft Holmes even as a nominal father since he so abjectly failed in that role – had been coming for many a year. I had reached the point where I was considering my own role in affairs, in that as little as a year or two I would be strong enough to defend my mother against that vermin that she had mistakenly married, but as matters had transpired I had not needed to. The arrival of the silent Mr. Blaze Trevelyan as valet to my so-called father would be a turning-point in all our lives, and thanks to the efforts of my Uncle Sherlock (I always thought of him as such) I was able to stay with those I loved while my mother's bane – and even better my horrible younger brother Midas – decamped to somewhere hopefully far, far away. Not Mars as I would have wished, but far enough for now.

I had known for some time that Mr. Mycroft Holmes was not my real father, although it had only been some two years ago that I had been able to find out the identity of that gentleman. Nine months before I had been born the city of London had apparently been penetrated (along with a large number of its citizens, male _and_ female!) by Prince Tane of Strafford Island, a Polynesian prince then on a state visit who was now king of his tiny but strategically situated island nation. My own visage and darker than usual skin showed my true heritage, and the only downside to that had of course been to further widen the breach between the parents who raised me as it had made my so-called father increasingly suspicious. Which given what the servants told me of his own activities brings to mind that saying about pots and kettles!

This particular day had started well enough, except for yet another horrible incident involving my new stepfather (as he would soon officially become). Of my five sisters three had moved out while Rachael and Ruth were away in the United States on some exchange thing or other, so we had the house to ourselves. Unfortunately much as I loved dear Blaze he was occasionally the absent-minded professor for he would think nothing of walking around the house with his dressing-gown hanging open before a mortified Mother would chasten him and tell him to put some clothes on. It was bad enough to think that that and my own mother.... no, I was too young to have to face those horrors, surely – but even worse when she stared after him looking..... 

It was about this time that I started going out on some very long and very sudden walks!

Back to my current predicament. I had taken a train to Oxford Street to look at some of the bookshops there before continuing on foot to Baker Street and my Uncle Sherlock – Mother had been so embarrassed at having to try to explain to me why it might be best that I might not arrive too early only for my wonderful soon to be step-father (clothed for a change) to blurt out ''cause you might just catch 'em at it, Tan!' I had not known that my poor mother could turn that shade of red!

But now something was.... well, odd. This bookshop itself was nothing out of the ordinary and this street had at least a dozen of them. What was unusual however was that there was a book signing going on inside, and the fellow doing the signing looked oddly like my Uncle Sherlock. I say 'oddly' because he had blond-white hair, a visible facial scar and was dressed in a most unfortunate purple outfit that made me wish that I had dark glasses, yet somehow he contrived to look just like the gentleman that I was heading off to visit. Intrigued, I stepped inside to take a closer look.

This Mr. Stewart Hartley was signing copies of his latest book 'Ye Historrie Of Ye Cinque Portes And Limbes', which despite the grating title actually looked rather interesting. There was quite a crowd in the little shop although he was just signing the last book of someone in the queue, and looked up at me as I entered. His eyes even more weirdly matched his outfit, nothing like my uncle's in both cases, yet I could not shake the sense of familiarity. 

I decided that I would buy the book and get it signed, as history was an interest of mine. Mr. Hartley smiled as I approached and accepted my book.

“A dedication, sir?” he asked.

The voice on the other hand was nothing like my uncle's, soft almost to the point of being inaudible.

“To my Uncle Sherlock, please”, I said. “He is not really an uncle but he is a good friend.”

Mr. Hartley smiled and wrote quickly in my book, then blotted the words so that they would not smudge. 

“Good hunting, Master Holmes”, he smiled.

I thanked him and was outside the shop before I realized something odd -. _how had he known that I was a Holmes?_ I had said that Uncle Sherlock was not a blood relative, after all. Frowning, I took the book out and looked at the inscription. It was as I had requested, but there was a small slip of paper that I had not even seen the fellow slip in alongside it:

'Take a cab'.

I frowned at that. It was a little over a mile to my uncle's house and as I always took the opportunity to exercise I had fully planned to walk it. Why would I need a cab? Unless....

I remembered back to that strange message I had passed on to my uncle about danger threatening him 'out on a limb', and for some reason I felt cold all over even without the gentle rain that was now falling. I hailed a cab and called out my destination. I did not yet understand what was going on but I had a bad feeling that I needed to see Uncle Sherlock. Fast.

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I scanned through my new book as the cab took me quickly to Baker Street. I did not have long but one thing struck me; Uncle Sherlock had mentioned that not long after I had passed on that 'limb' warning to him he had had a case in Tenterden in Kent, which the book said was an outlying member or limb to the main Cinque Ports. There were several dozen of the damn things but fortunately there was also a foldaway map with them all on.

Despite my mother's warnings I asked the landlady's niece Mrs. Rockland who let me in if I could go up to see my uncle immediately (I knew her moderately well as her own recently-acquired uncle Mr. Malone was apparently prone to the same _sans_ clothes forgetfulness that my new stepfather was, and we had bonded over the horror of older relatives who were just terrible. Talking of which I hoped as I hastened up the stairs that Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John were not.... well, that they were just _not!_ I mean, at their ages!

_(Yes, thanks to Mr. I Forgot To Put On Clothing Again I knew that that sort of thing did happen at home far too often for my own sanity, but the utterly soppy way in which Mother looked at Blaze compared to how miserable she had been before – I had to allow her some happiness. Although there were limits to even my forbearance, and when it came to cow-eyes across the dinner-table and her telling me that my future stepfather was so honourable because he would not..... you know.... before they were married? I knew from all that smiling that she meant rather more than waving an arm about in a vague manner, that was for sure!)_

Uncle Sherlock seemed surprised at my hasty entrance and told me that Uncle John had gone off to see a patient in Essex. That would normally have reassured me, but I remembered that map and knew better. The odds seemed incredible but somehow I just _knew_.

“Uncle Sherlock”, I said quickly, _“where_ in Essex did Uncle John go? Please tell me that it was not Brightlingsea?”

He stared at me in shock.

“How did you know that?” he asked. “Yes, our friend Sir Peter Greenwood's daughter is expecting, and he cannot do her check-up himself as he has this terrible flu.”

I prayed desperately for the best, even while I feared the worst.

“Because Brightlingsea, like Tenterden, is another limb of the Cinque Ports!” I exclaimed.

He stared at me then uttered a word that I shall not repeat here (because Mother would somehow find out and surely kill me!), and was out the door. I grabbed my book and raced after him.

This was so not good!

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	15. Case 254: Out On Another Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. Sherlock is in a race against time – and it ends in a death!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I do not think, even given all that I have faced in my time on this earth, that I had ever felt so absolutely horrified when my nephew – I always think of him thus even though we were really not technically blood-related – told me that that terrible prophecy about something terrible 'out on a limb' might be coming true after all. My beloved John was in danger!

Tantalus caught me up at the street and mercifully he had his wits about him when I had none, for he offered to go to the post-office and wire Liverpool Street Station to get a special train ready for me. I thanked him and then endured one of the most horrendous cab-rides in my existence, as the driver pulled every trick he knew to earn the guinea that I had promised him if he got me there quickly enough. 

John had a considerable start on me and I knew that he would have taken a semi-fast train to Colchester after which he would have to also change at Wivenhoe. At least he was not particularly hurrying, and I perhaps owed my guardian angel at least some thanks that when I reached Liverpool Street the Great Eastern Railway impressively had my special ready and waiting for me. I could only pray that I was not too late.

_(If I had had any wits left to me at this point, I would have known that such a thing would have been impossible. Indeed a later check by Miss St. Leger would confirm that a request for an urgent special had reached the Company over an hour before Tantalus reached Baker Street – and that request had come from a 'Mr. S. Holmes'. Hmm)._

It would take a little under two hours to get to Brightlingsea even with a special. My train was putting on a good speed and I could see that it would be a close-run thing. I could not reach Colchester before him what with his start but I might just catch him by Wivenhoe, the junction for the short Brightlingsea branch, and I spent the whole journey pacing the carriage and staring anxiously at my watch. Thank the Lord that there were no signals or other delays. 

Frustratingly, I missed John by less than five minutes at the junction. I then had to wait what seemed like an eternity until his train had traversed the single line and reached its destination before my own could set off after it, and when I did finally reach an absurdly grand terminus building considering the size of the place I almost fell out of the train in my eagerness to find the man that I loved. I had no idea what sort of danger was threatening him; I just had to reach him. I rushed up to a sleepy-looking porter.

“I am looking for a gentleman arrived by the last train”, I said urgently. “Short-cropped blond hair, well-dressed and carrying a dark brown doctor's bag.”

It seemed an age before the fellow's brain managed to judder into gear and he answered.

“Went out to the forecourt, sir”, he said slowly. “Said they were sending a carriage for him...”

For once I did not bother to tip for information (although I remedied that later) and raced along to the station exit. The first of the few passengers from the local train had not yet reached the waiting-room but I could see through the frosted glass that there was someone sat in there. I sighed in relief; it was John!

What happened next made no sense when I looked back at it, so I shall try to narrate it as best I can. The door leading out to the station forecourt burst open and a scruffy middle-aged fellow ran through it. For a brief moment I did not recognize him but then my blood ran cold. It was Mr. Alistair Campbell, the villain that we had netted on Futility Island not far from here (The Adventure Of The Tired Captain) – _and he had a gun!_

It was about five strides to the door into the waiting-room from where I was standing, and I thought that I covered the distance smartly enough. But in that short yet incredibly long time, two things happened. First and most terribly there was the sound of a gun being fired from inside the waiting-room. Second yet at almost the exact same moment, for some reason the villain _screamed_. 

I burst through the door at the same time that Mr. Campbell fled through the opposite one; I would dearly loved to have hunted him down there and then but I had more pressing matters to hand. John was bleeding from a wound on his shoulder and staring in confusion. I thought at first that he was maybe in shock but then I realized that he was looking slightly over my right shoulder. I turned instinctively to look and I saw.....

_Me?_

I blinked. There was no-one there; just a huge fireplace with a mirror over it. Then a groan came from the man who I loved more than life itself and I pulled myself together. The villain would have to wait; I had several very important things to attend to first.

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My first two priorities were to defend John from any further danger and to get him well again. Over the next two days the doctors advised keeping him sedated for as long as possible so that he could have time to recover, and only on the third day did they consent to my having him moved. They were probably more than a little surprised that I organized this for the middle of the night, having already telegraphed Miss St. Leger for the services of one of her best agents to find and keep tabs on the vile Mr. Campbell. 

Miss St. Leger arrived in person barely two hours after the shooting (impressive even by her standards), and as if I did not have enough to cope with she told me that there was something else that I should know. Mr. Alistair Campbell had long sworn that he would get either myself or John, and had escaped from prison the previous week. She had only learned of this at about the same time that I had been fretting at Wivenhoe and had raced round to see me in person only to be redirected by the ever efficient Mrs. Malone. The authorities had informed my brother Randall of Mr. Campbell's escape some days back but he had 'forgotten' to pass the warning on, presumably in revenge for my involvement in the Mrs. Findlay case. I was going to kill him! 

Fortunately the ever-efficient Miss St. Leger had a plan for that already (seriously, I really would have to buy her that bakery if she kept this up!). A few telegrams to the appropriate people starting with Luke, and Randall would soon discover that there was no hole for him to crawl into this time, no matter how far he went. I was going to unleash the worst possible vengeance on the bastard – _for starters!_

Once I was sure that John was sleeping I had him spirited away to a top hospital near London; it so pained me that I had to remain in the town to maintain the illusion that he was still here. A second of Miss St. Leger's agents then made sure to leak a certain address to Mr. Campbell, and once I knew that he had received it I made my way back to the capital stopping only to call in at John's bedside. Seeing him broken like that because of me was too much and I wept openly in the small room before pulling myself together. I had to be ready for the events of that night.

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The house that I had chosen was that of a family friend who lived in Hanover Square, a quiet area between Regent Street and Oxford Street. He was enjoying a free night at Claridge's at my (all right, Guilford's) expense, and when I arrived my agents had already set up a small room as fitting for a recuperating patient, complete with all the paraphernalia a recovering patients needs but probably does not really want. They had even arranged a small automatic pump fed by a pipe from the next room so that the heap underneath the bedclothes rose and fell periodically as if by someone's breathing. Mercifully it was a warm day for early March so there was reason to leave a small window in the upstairs room slightly open. The balcony was easily accessible to someone of Mr. Campbell's athletic abilities, I reckoned.

I made a show of leaving the house once it was dark as I was sure that my quarry was somewhere outside. The cab took me swiftly round to the back of the house and I re-entered; I was sure that the villain would wait a few moments just to be sure that I was gone. In the event it was a full half-hour before I heard someone pushing at the window, then a lithe figure slipped through and into the room. I could see the glint of steel in the moonlight (the moon was still nearly full) as he moved across to the heaped figure in the bed. I allowed myself a smirk from behind the screen.

Mr. Campbell was clearly suspicious at the large mass beneath the covers, but he crept steadily nearer until with a swift move, he removed all the blankets in a single move. It was a pity that his back was to me at the time because I would have quite liked to have seen the look of shock in his eyes, although the look I got when he heard me move round the screen behind him was quite satisfactory. Then he snorted.

“Should've known it was a set-up”, he sneered. “Back to clink for me, eh? Don't you worry, Mr. Holmes. They can't keep Bad Al Campbell inside for ever. When I get out next time, I'll be coming for you first!”

I smiled darkly, shook my head and levelled my gun at him. His bluster vanished as if it had never been and his eyes widened in terror.

“You're... you're not gonna..... you can't!”

I could. I did.

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A mystery benefactor had arranged an _impromptu_ fireworks display for the children of the square that night so one extra report was not noticed. There was also some delicious irony in that the fisherman who was recompensed more than adequately to dispose of a large wooden crate that night normally plied his trade along the north Essex coast. Mr. Campbell's remains might well end up somewhere near Futility Island again as his body finally served a useful purpose in its time polluting this earth – as fish food.

Now back to my beloved John. And once he was safe and secure – Randall!

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	16. Interlude: Safe Harbour?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. He who goes and runs away.... does not always do that well, actually.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Because I am human I will admit that my initial response to Sherlock's request to go and see our pestilential brother Randall (a fellow so far up himself that he would need both a map and a guide to find his way out) was one of annoyance. To be fair I had had a whole day with Benji planned and he had promised to walk me up and down the stairs fucking me all the way until I passed out. And then to keep doing it until I came round again. But when I read what had happened, I went from incredulity via shock to anger in mere seconds.

“What's up, Mr. Lucifer sir?” Benji said, playing with my hair in that way that he knew soothed me. I sighed heavily.

“My brother Randall has finally gone too far, even for him”, I said heavily. “Last week one of the villains that Sherlock had put behind bars managed to escape. He had long threatened to get back at him by going after John – and Randall knew about his escape but 'forgot' to tell Sherlock!”

Benji continued to pet me. I may have almost purred with pleasure, but there was no-one around to hear me so I did not. 

“Do you want me and the boys to run into your brother one evening, Mr. Lucifer sir?” he asked.

That was tempting, but I did not want to risk dragging the man I loved into this. Randall was the vengeful sort and would likely go after Benji in return. No, Sherlock's idea for justice was infinitely better. Also, far crueller.

“I am going to deal with the bastard”, I said. “I am sorry, Benji; I was so looking forward to today. You should go buy something for Bertha; she is due in another two months.”

“You go, Mr. Lucifer sir”, he said loyally. “Once it's all sorted, I'll get Lloyd and Danny to join me for a weekend when we can all play with you.”

Now that was definitely something to look forward to. I kissed him goodbye, pressed his money on him (the honourable fellow did not want to take it because he had barely arrived, but given both that he had a fourteenth child on the way and what he had suggested, he would be more than earning it soon enough!), then left.

 _Oh Randall_ , I thought with a wry smile. _This is going to hurt you much more than it hurts me._

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Unfortunately Sherlock had been so concerned over reaching John when he had realized the danger that he had not thought to contact me, as I might have been able to slow down his beloved's train for him. I was however able to do it for Randall's special which was going to encounter a whole host of 'unexpected' delays before it would reach Dover. Sherlock had put all the other necessary arrangements in place through his friend the terrifying Miss St. Leger (I had been tempted to send her after Randall but she did not deserve to have to sully her hands on the villain, much as she would have doubtless enjoyed it). My own special was ready and waiting for me and made good time on its dash to the coast.

Thanks to the multiplicity of routes between London and Dover I arrived at the Kent port only a few minutes behind the villain. One of Sherlock's friends Mr. Harold Godfreyson was a tide-waiter here and was waiting for me on the platform; he assured me that as I had asked, all departures from the docks had been delayed 'for security reasons'. I therefore had some time in hand, and wanted to make sure that the oily bastard who I about to have the displeasure of meeting would suffer as much as possible. Because he deserved it.

Sure enough there he was, tapping his foot impatiently at the delay to his flight to France which he thought would spare him his mother's wrath. I reminded myself once more than we were not blood-related – that seemed important just then – then walked up to him. He looked shocked when he saw me approaching, and I made sure to keep my expression blank as I drew near.

“Your father sent me”, I said, not failing to notice his relief at my (careful) choice of parent. “He says that he is angry with you for what you did, but he has asked your mother not to come down too hard on you.”

The sigh of relief was palpable.

“Good old Father!” he exclaimed. “Everything all right?”

I glared at him. Not even a shred of remorse. Not that I had expected any.

“John Watson was nearly killed because of you”, I said coldly. “I have advised Sherlock that you could be tried as an accomplice to murder, since you clearly knew that Mr. Campbell was out for his friend's blood yet did nothing.”

“That would never stand up in court!” he said, although he looked worried.

“As the family legal expert I rather think that it would”, I said. “Oh, and a message from Muriel. She says not to go into that special place that you frequent in Paris, and she has had me alert the local police to keep an eye out for you. You can buy Father some cigars from the shop over the road from it, instead.”

He stared at me in shock.

 _“How the blazes does she know about 'Tiffin'?”_ he demanded.

“I told her”, I said calmly.

He gave me a look of absolute horror.

”You did _what?”_ he exclaimed.

I noted the slight disturbance at the entrance that I had just come through, and grinned. The calm before the storm. Reaching into my pocket I extracted the item that I had been keeping there and handed it to him. He looked at it in complete confusion.

“What the hell should I need a Bible for?” he asked.

_Four, three, two, one....._

“RAN-DALL!!!!!!!!!!”

 _They must have heard that in Calais_ , I thought as my mother surged into the waiting-area wielding her latest super-reinforced walking-stick. The look on the villain's face was a picture.

 _“Because you have not got a prayer!”_ I snorted.

“You said that Father had talked her out of coming after me!” he exclaimed, his face ashen.

“Did I?” I said with as much fake innocence as I could muster. “No no no, Randall. I rather think that I said he had _asked_ her not to come after you. Unfortunately, by the time he had gotten the words out she was already on her way. But not to worry.”

The crowds behind us were parting like the proverbial Red Sea as the pest's mother surged towards us. He backed away but he had nowhere to go unless he was planning to jump into the Channel and try to swim to France. That might actually have been his best bet.

“Not to worry?” he yelped, looking desperately around for an escape. 

“Yes”, I said brightly. “The life-insurance policy that Muriel took out on you will still be valid – _and I can help her claim on it!_ Goodbye!”

I left before there was any blood. I may or may not have tipped the two constables outside to take their time before going in. For their own safety if nothing else.

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A few days later John was safe, Sherlock was happy, Randall was in hospital with various broken appendages, and I had both Benji and Danny inside me while Lloyd was jerking me off. Life was.... meh, not too bad!

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End file.
